His reflections served apparently to shorten the journey; and Soames
found himself proceeding along Globe Road--a dark and uninviting
highway--almost before he realized that London Bridge had been
traversed. It was now long past one o'clock; and that part of the
east-end showed dreary and deserted. Public houses had long since
ejected their late guests, and even those argumentative groups,
which, after closing-time, linger on the pavements, within the odor
Bacchanalian, were dispersed. The jauntiness was gone, now, from Soames'
manner, and aware of a marked internal depression, he passed furtively
along the pavement with its long shadowy reaches between the islands
of light formed by the street lamps. From patch to patch he passed, and
each successive lamp that looked down upon him found him more furtive,
more bent in his carriage.
Not a shop nor a house exhibited any light. Sleeping Globe Road, East,
served to extinguish the last poor spark of courage within Soames'
bosom. He came to the extreme end of the road without having perceived
a beckoning hand, without having detected a sound to reveal that his
advent was observed. In the shadow of a wall he stopped, resting his
grip upon the pavement and looking back upon his tracks.
No living thing moved from end to end of Globe Road.
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