CHAPTER 46. INTELLIGENCE

I must have been married, if I may trust to my imperfect memory for

dates, about a year or so, when one evening, as I was returning from a

solitary walk, thinking of the book I was then writing--for my success

had steadily increased with my steady application, and I was engaged at

that time upon my first work of fiction--I came past Mrs. Steerforth’s

house. I had often passed it before, during my residence in that

neighbourhood, though never when I could choose another road. Howbeit,

it did sometimes happen that it was not easy to find another, without

making a long circuit; and so I had passed that way, upon the whole,

pretty often.

I had never done more than glance at the house, as I went by with a

quickened step. It had been uniformly gloomy and dull. None of the best

rooms abutted on the road; and the narrow, heavily-framed old-fashioned

windows, never cheerful under any circumstances, looked very dismal,

close shut, and with their blinds always drawn down. There was a covered

way across a little paved court, to an entrance that was never used; and

there was one round staircase window, at odds with all the rest, and the

only one unshaded by a blind, which had the same unoccupied blank look.

I do not remember that I ever saw a light in all the house. If I had

been a casual passer-by, I should have probably supposed that some

childless person lay dead in it. If I had happily possessed no knowledge

of the place, and had seen it often in that changeless state, I should

have pleased my fancy with many ingenious speculations, I dare say.

As it was, I thought as little of it as I might. But my mind could not

go by it and leave it, as my body did; and it usually awakened a long

train of meditations. Coming before me, on this particular evening that

I mention, mingled with the childish recollections and later fancies,

the ghosts of half-formed hopes, the broken shadows of disappointments

dimly seen and understood, the blending of experience and imagination,

incidental to the occupation with which my thoughts had been busy, it

was more than commonly suggestive. I fell into a brown study as I walked

on, and a voice at my side made me start.

It was a woman’s voice, too. I was not long in recollecting Mrs.

Steerforth’s little parlour-maid, who had formerly worn blue ribbons in

her cap. She had taken them out now, to adapt herself, I suppose, to

the altered character of the house; and wore but one or two disconsolate

bows of sober brown.

‘If you please, sir, would you have the goodness to walk in, and speak

to Miss Dartle?’

‘Has Miss Dartle sent you for me?’ I inquired.

‘Not tonight, sir, but it’s just the same. Miss Dartle saw you pass a

night or two ago; and I was to sit at work on the staircase, and when I

saw you pass again, to ask you to step in and speak to her.’

I turned back, and inquired of my conductor, as we went along, how Mrs.

Steerforth was. She said her lady was but poorly, and kept her own room

a good deal.

When we arrived at the house, I was directed to Miss Dartle in the

garden, and left to make my presence known to her myself. She was

sitting on a seat at one end of a kind of terrace, overlooking the great

city. It was a sombre evening, with a lurid light in the sky; and as

I saw the prospect scowling in the distance, with here and there some

larger object starting up into the sullen glare, I fancied it was no

inapt companion to the memory of this fierce woman.

She saw me as I advanced, and rose for a moment to receive me. I thought

her, then, still more colourless and thin than when I had seen her last;

the flashing eyes still brighter, and the scar still plainer.

Our meeting was not cordial. We had parted angrily on the last occasion;

and there was an air of disdain about her, which she took no pains to

conceal.

‘I am told you wish to speak to me, Miss Dartle,’ said I, standing near

her, with my hand upon the back of the seat, and declining her gesture

of invitation to sit down.

‘If you please,’ said she. ‘Pray has this girl been found?’

‘No.’

‘And yet she has run away!’

I saw her thin lips working while she looked at me, as if they were

eager to load her with reproaches.

‘Run away?’ I repeated.

‘Yes! From him,’ she said, with a laugh. ‘If she is not found, perhaps

she never will be found. She may be dead!’

The vaunting cruelty with which she met my glance, I never saw expressed

in any other face that ever I have seen.

‘To wish her dead,’ said I, ‘may be the kindest wish that one of her own

sex could bestow upon her. I am glad that time has softened you so much,

Miss Dartle.’

She condescended to make no reply, but, turning on me with another

scornful laugh, said:

‘The friends of this excellent and much-injured young lady are friends

of yours. You are their champion, and assert their rights. Do you wish

to know what is known of her?’

‘Yes,’ said I.

She rose with an ill-favoured smile, and taking a few steps towards

a wall of holly that was near at hand, dividing the lawn from a

kitchen-garden, said, in a louder voice, ‘Come here!’--as if she were

calling to some unclean beast.

‘You will restrain any demonstrative championship or vengeance in this

place, of course, Mr. Copperfield?’ said she, looking over her shoulder

at me with the same expression.

I inclined my head, without knowing what she meant; and she said, ‘Come

here!’ again; and returned, followed by the respectable Mr. Littimer,

who, with undiminished respectability, made me a bow, and took up his

position behind her. The air of wicked grace: of triumph, in which,

strange to say, there was yet something feminine and alluring: with

which she reclined upon the seat between us, and looked at me, was

worthy of a cruel Princess in a Legend.

‘Now,’ said she, imperiously, without glancing at him, and touching

the old wound as it throbbed: perhaps, in this instance, with pleasure

rather than pain. ‘Tell Mr. Copperfield about the flight.’

‘Mr. James and myself, ma’am--’

‘Don’t address yourself to me!’ she interrupted with a frown.

‘Mr. James and myself, sir--’

‘Nor to me, if you please,’ said I.

Mr. Littimer, without being at all discomposed, signified by a slight

obeisance, that anything that was most agreeable to us was most

agreeable to him; and began again.

‘Mr. James and myself have been abroad with the young woman, ever

since she left Yarmouth under Mr. James’s protection. We have been in a

variety of places, and seen a deal of foreign country. We have been in

France, Switzerland, Italy, in fact, almost all parts.’

He looked at the back of the seat, as if he were addressing himself to

that; and softly played upon it with his hands, as if he were striking

chords upon a dumb piano.

‘Mr. James took quite uncommonly to the young woman; and was more

settled, for a length of time, than I have known him to be since I have

been in his service. The young woman was very improvable, and spoke the

languages; and wouldn’t have been known for the same country-person. I

noticed that she was much admired wherever we went.’

Miss Dartle put her hand upon her side. I saw him steal a glance at her,

and slightly smile to himself.

‘Very much admired, indeed, the young woman was. What with her dress;

what with the air and sun; what with being made so much of; what with

this, that, and the other; her merits really attracted general notice.’

He made a short pause. Her eyes wandered restlessly over the distant

prospect, and she bit her nether lip to stop that busy mouth.

Taking his hands from the seat, and placing one of them within the

other, as he settled himself on one leg, Mr. Littimer proceeded, with

his eyes cast down, and his respectable head a little advanced, and a

little on one side:

‘The young woman went on in this manner for some time, being

occasionally low in her spirits, until I think she began to weary Mr.

James by giving way to her low spirits and tempers of that kind; and

things were not so comfortable. Mr. James he began to be restless again.

The more restless he got, the worse she got; and I must say, for myself,

that I had a very difficult time of it indeed between the two. Still

matters were patched up here, and made good there, over and over again;

and altogether lasted, I am sure, for a longer time than anybody could

have expected.’

Recalling her eyes from the distance, she looked at me again now, with

her former air. Mr. Littimer, clearing his throat behind his hand with a

respectable short cough, changed legs, and went on:

‘At last, when there had been, upon the whole, a good many words and

reproaches, Mr. James he set off one morning, from the neighbourhood of

Naples, where we had a villa (the young woman being very partial to

the sea), and, under pretence of coming back in a day or so, left it in

charge with me to break it out, that, for the general happiness of all

concerned, he was’--here an interruption of the short cough--‘gone. But

Mr. James, I must say, certainly did behave extremely honourable; for

he proposed that the young woman should marry a very respectable person,

who was fully prepared to overlook the past, and who was, at least, as

good as anybody the young woman could have aspired to in a regular way:

her connexions being very common.’

He changed legs again, and wetted his lips. I was convinced that the

scoundrel spoke of himself, and I saw my conviction reflected in Miss

Dartle’s face.

‘This I also had it in charge to communicate. I was willing to do

anything to relieve Mr. James from his difficulty, and to restore

harmony between himself and an affectionate parent, who has undergone

so much on his account. Therefore I undertook the commission. The

young woman’s violence when she came to, after I broke the fact of his

departure, was beyond all expectations. She was quite mad, and had to

be held by force; or, if she couldn’t have got to a knife, or got to the

sea, she’d have beaten her head against the marble floor.’

Miss Dartle, leaning back upon the seat, with a light of exultation in

her face, seemed almost to caress the sounds this fellow had uttered.

‘But when I came to the second part of what had been entrusted to me,’

said Mr. Littimer, rubbing his hands uneasily, ‘which anybody might

have supposed would have been, at all events, appreciated as a kind

intention, then the young woman came out in her true colours. A more

outrageous person I never did see. Her conduct was surprisingly bad. She

had no more gratitude, no more feeling, no more patience, no more reason

in her, than a stock or a stone. If I hadn’t been upon my guard, I am

convinced she would have had my blood.’

‘I think the better of her for it,’ said I, indignantly.

Mr. Littimer bent his head, as much as to say, ‘Indeed, sir? But you’re

young!’ and resumed his narrative.

‘It was necessary, in short, for a time, to take away everything nigh

her, that she could do herself, or anybody else, an injury with, and

to shut her up close. Notwithstanding which, she got out in the night;

forced the lattice of a window, that I had nailed up myself; dropped on

a vine that was trailed below; and never has been seen or heard of, to

my knowledge, since.’

‘She is dead, perhaps,’ said Miss Dartle, with a smile, as if she could

have spurned the body of the ruined girl.

‘She may have drowned herself, miss,’ returned Mr. Littimer, catching at

an excuse for addressing himself to somebody. ‘It’s very possible. Or,

she may have had assistance from the boatmen, and the boatmen’s wives

and children. Being given to low company, she was very much in the

habit of talking to them on the beach, Miss Dartle, and sitting by their

boats. I have known her do it, when Mr. James has been away, whole days.

Mr. James was far from pleased to find out, once, that she had told the

children she was a boatman’s daughter, and that in her own country, long

ago, she had roamed about the beach, like them.’

Oh, Emily! Unhappy beauty! What a picture rose before me of her sitting

on the far-off shore, among the children like herself when she was

innocent, listening to little voices such as might have called her

Mother had she been a poor man’s wife; and to the great voice of the

sea, with its eternal ‘Never more!’

‘When it was clear that nothing could be done, Miss Dartle--’

‘Did I tell you not to speak to me?’ she said, with stern contempt.

‘You spoke to me, miss,’ he replied. ‘I beg your pardon. But it is my

service to obey.’

‘Do your service,’ she returned. ‘Finish your story, and go!’

‘When it was clear,’ he said, with infinite respectability and an

obedient bow, ‘that she was not to be found, I went to Mr. James, at the

place where it had been agreed that I should write to him, and informed

him of what had occurred. Words passed between us in consequence, and

I felt it due to my character to leave him. I could bear, and I have

borne, a great deal from Mr. James; but he insulted me too far. He hurt

me. Knowing the unfortunate difference between himself and his mother,

and what her anxiety of mind was likely to be, I took the liberty of

coming home to England, and relating--’

‘For money which I paid him,’ said Miss Dartle to me.

‘Just so, ma’am--and relating what I knew. I am not aware,’ said Mr.

Littimer, after a moment’s reflection, ‘that there is anything else.

I am at present out of employment, and should be happy to meet with a

respectable situation.’

Miss Dartle glanced at me, as though she would inquire if there were

anything that I desired to ask. As there was something which had

occurred to my mind, I said in reply:

‘I could wish to know from this--creature,’ I could not bring myself

to utter any more conciliatory word, ‘whether they intercepted a letter

that was written to her from home, or whether he supposes that she

received it.’

He remained calm and silent, with his eyes fixed on the ground, and the

tip of every finger of his right hand delicately poised against the tip

of every finger of his left.

Miss Dartle turned her head disdainfully towards him.

‘I beg your pardon, miss,’ he said, awakening from his abstraction,

‘but, however submissive to you, I have my position, though a servant.

Mr. Copperfield and you, miss, are different people. If Mr. Copperfield

wishes to know anything from me, I take the liberty of reminding Mr.

Copperfield that he can put a question to me. I have a character to

maintain.’

After a momentary struggle with myself, I turned my eyes upon him, and

said, ‘You have heard my question. Consider it addressed to yourself, if

you choose. What answer do you make?’

‘Sir,’ he rejoined, with an occasional separation and reunion of those

delicate tips, ‘my answer must be qualified; because, to betray Mr.

James’s confidence to his mother, and to betray it to you, are two

different actions. It is not probable, I consider, that Mr. James would

encourage the receipt of letters likely to increase low spirits and

unpleasantness; but further than that, sir, I should wish to avoid

going.’

‘Is that all?’ inquired Miss Dartle of me.

I indicated that I had nothing more to say. ‘Except,’ I added, as I

saw him moving off, ‘that I understand this fellow’s part in the wicked

story, and that, as I shall make it known to the honest man who has been

her father from her childhood, I would recommend him to avoid going too

much into public.’

He had stopped the moment I began, and had listened with his usual

repose of manner.

‘Thank you, sir. But you’ll excuse me if I say, sir, that there are

neither slaves nor slave-drivers in this country, and that people are

not allowed to take the law into their own hands. If they do, it is

more to their own peril, I believe, than to other people’s. Consequently

speaking, I am not at all afraid of going wherever I may wish, sir.’

With that, he made a polite bow; and, with another to Miss Dartle, went

away through the arch in the wall of holly by which he had come. Miss

Dartle and I regarded each other for a little while in silence; her

manner being exactly what it was, when she had produced the man.

‘He says besides,’ she observed, with a slow curling of her lip, ‘that

his master, as he hears, is coasting Spain; and this done, is away

to gratify his seafaring tastes till he is weary. But this is of no

interest to you. Between these two proud persons, mother and son, there

is a wider breach than before, and little hope of its healing, for they

are one at heart, and time makes each more obstinate and imperious.

Neither is this of any interest to you; but it introduces what I wish to

say. This devil whom you make an angel of. I mean this low girl whom he

picked out of the tide-mud,’ with her black eyes full upon me, and her

passionate finger up, ‘may be alive,--for I believe some common things

are hard to die. If she is, you will desire to have a pearl of such

price found and taken care of. We desire that, too; that he may not

by any chance be made her prey again. So far, we are united in one

interest; and that is why I, who would do her any mischief that so

coarse a wretch is capable of feeling, have sent for you to hear what

you have heard.’

I saw, by the change in her face, that someone was advancing behind me.

It was Mrs. Steerforth, who gave me her hand more coldly than of yore,

and with an augmentation of her former stateliness of manner, but still,

I perceived--and I was touched by it--with an ineffaceable remembrance

of my old love for her son. She was greatly altered. Her fine figure was

far less upright, her handsome face was deeply marked, and her hair was

almost white. But when she sat down on the seat, she was a handsome lady

still; and well I knew the bright eye with its lofty look, that had been

a light in my very dreams at school.

‘Is Mr. Copperfield informed of everything, Rosa?’

‘Yes.’

‘And has he heard Littimer himself?’

‘Yes; I have told him why you wished it.’ ‘You are a good girl. I have

had some slight correspondence with your former friend, sir,’ addressing

me, ‘but it has not restored his sense of duty or natural obligation.

Therefore I have no other object in this, than what Rosa has mentioned.

If, by the course which may relieve the mind of the decent man you

brought here (for whom I am sorry--I can say no more), my son may be

saved from again falling into the snares of a designing enemy, well!’

She drew herself up, and sat looking straight before her, far away.

‘Madam,’ I said respectfully, ‘I understand. I assure you I am in no

danger of putting any strained construction on your motives. But I must

say, even to you, having known this injured family from childhood,

that if you suppose the girl, so deeply wronged, has not been cruelly

deluded, and would not rather die a hundred deaths than take a cup of

water from your son’s hand now, you cherish a terrible mistake.’

‘Well, Rosa, well!’ said Mrs. Steerforth, as the other was about to

interpose, ‘it is no matter. Let it be. You are married, sir, I am

told?’

I answered that I had been some time married.

‘And are doing well? I hear little in the quiet life I lead, but I

understand you are beginning to be famous.’

‘I have been very fortunate,’ I said, ‘and find my name connected with

some praise.’

‘You have no mother?’--in a softened voice.

‘No.’

‘It is a pity,’ she returned. ‘She would have been proud of you. Good

night!’

I took the hand she held out with a dignified, unbending air, and it

was as calm in mine as if her breast had been at peace. Her pride could

still its very pulses, it appeared, and draw the placid veil before

her face, through which she sat looking straight before her on the far

distance.

As I moved away from them along the terrace, I could not help observing

how steadily they both sat gazing on the prospect, and how it thickened

and closed around them. Here and there, some early lamps were seen to

twinkle in the distant city; and in the eastern quarter of the sky

the lurid light still hovered. But, from the greater part of the broad

valley interposed, a mist was rising like a sea, which, mingling with

the darkness, made it seem as if the gathering waters would encompass

them. I have reason to remember this, and think of it with awe; for

before I looked upon those two again, a stormy sea had risen to their

feet.

Reflecting on what had been thus told me, I felt it right that it should

be communicated to Mr. Peggotty. On the following evening I went into

London in quest of him. He was always wandering about from place to

place, with his one object of recovering his niece before him; but was

more in London than elsewhere. Often and often, now, had I seen him in

the dead of night passing along the streets, searching, among the few

who loitered out of doors at those untimely hours, for what he dreaded

to find.

He kept a lodging over the little chandler’s shop in Hungerford Market,

which I have had occasion to mention more than once, and from which he

first went forth upon his errand of mercy. Hither I directed my walk. On

making inquiry for him, I learned from the people of the house that he

had not gone out yet, and I should find him in his room upstairs.

He was sitting reading by a window in which he kept a few plants. The

room was very neat and orderly. I saw in a moment that it was always

kept prepared for her reception, and that he never went out but he

thought it possible he might bring her home. He had not heard my tap

at the door, and only raised his eyes when I laid my hand upon his

shoulder.

‘Mas’r Davy! Thankee, sir! thankee hearty, for this visit! Sit ye down.

You’re kindly welcome, sir!’

‘Mr. Peggotty,’ said I, taking the chair he handed me, ‘don’t expect

much! I have heard some news.’

‘Of Em’ly!’

He put his hand, in a nervous manner, on his mouth, and turned pale, as

he fixed his eyes on mine.

‘It gives no clue to where she is; but she is not with him.’

He sat down, looking intently at me, and listened in profound silence

to all I had to tell. I well remember the sense of dignity, beauty even,

with which the patient gravity of his face impressed me, when, having

gradually removed his eyes from mine, he sat looking downward, leaning

his forehead on his hand. He offered no interruption, but remained

throughout perfectly still. He seemed to pursue her figure through

the narrative, and to let every other shape go by him, as if it were

nothing.

When I had done, he shaded his face, and continued silent. I looked out

of the window for a little while, and occupied myself with the plants.

‘How do you fare to feel about it, Mas’r Davy?’ he inquired at length.

‘I think that she is living,’ I replied.

‘I doen’t know. Maybe the first shock was too rough, and in the wildness

of her art--! That there blue water as she used to speak on. Could she

have thowt o’ that so many year, because it was to be her grave!’

He said this, musing, in a low, frightened voice; and walked across the

little room.

‘And yet,’ he added, ‘Mas’r Davy, I have felt so sure as she was

living--I have know’d, awake and sleeping, as it was so trew that I

should find her--I have been so led on by it, and held up by it--that I

doen’t believe I can have been deceived. No! Em’ly’s alive!’

He put his hand down firmly on the table, and set his sunburnt face into

a resolute expression.

‘My niece, Em’ly, is alive, sir!’ he said, steadfastly. ‘I doen’t know

wheer it comes from, or how ‘tis, but I am told as she’s alive!’

He looked almost like a man inspired, as he said it. I waited for a

few moments, until he could give me his undivided attention; and then

proceeded to explain the precaution, that, it had occurred to me last

night, it would be wise to take.

‘Now, my dear friend--‘I began.

‘Thankee, thankee, kind sir,’ he said, grasping my hand in both of his.

‘If she should make her way to London, which is likely--for where could

she lose herself so readily as in this vast city; and what would she

wish to do, but lose and hide herself, if she does not go home?--’

‘And she won’t go home,’ he interposed, shaking his head mournfully. ‘If

she had left of her own accord, she might; not as It was, sir.’

‘If she should come here,’ said I, ‘I believe there is one person,

here, more likely to discover her than any other in the world. Do

you remember--hear what I say, with fortitude--think of your great

object!--do you remember Martha?’

‘Of our town?’

I needed no other answer than his face.

‘Do you know that she is in London?’

‘I have seen her in the streets,’ he answered, with a shiver.

‘But you don’t know,’ said I, ‘that Emily was charitable to her, with

Ham’s help, long before she fled from home. Nor, that, when we met one

night, and spoke together in the room yonder, over the way, she listened

at the door.’

‘Mas’r Davy!’ he replied in astonishment. ‘That night when it snew so

hard?’

‘That night. I have never seen her since. I went back, after parting

from you, to speak to her, but she was gone. I was unwilling to mention

her to you then, and I am now; but she is the person of whom I speak,

and with whom I think we should communicate. Do you understand?’

‘Too well, sir,’ he replied. We had sunk our voices, almost to a

whisper, and continued to speak in that tone.

‘You say you have seen her. Do you think that you could find her? I

could only hope to do so by chance.’

‘I think, Mas’r Davy, I know wheer to look.’

‘It is dark. Being together, shall we go out now, and try to find her

tonight?’

He assented, and prepared to accompany me. Without appearing to observe

what he was doing, I saw how carefully he adjusted the little room,

put a candle ready and the means of lighting it, arranged the bed, and

finally took out of a drawer one of her dresses (I remember to have

seen her wear it), neatly folded with some other garments, and a bonnet,

which he placed upon a chair. He made no allusion to these clothes,

neither did I. There they had been waiting for her, many and many a

night, no doubt.

‘The time was, Mas’r Davy,’ he said, as we came downstairs, ‘when I

thowt this girl, Martha, a’most like the dirt underneath my Em’ly’s

feet. God forgive me, theer’s a difference now!’

As we went along, partly to hold him in conversation, and partly to

satisfy myself, I asked him about Ham. He said, almost in the same words

as formerly, that Ham was just the same, ‘wearing away his life with

kiender no care nohow for ‘t; but never murmuring, and liked by all’.

I asked him what he thought Ham’s state of mind was, in reference to the

cause of their misfortunes? Whether he believed it was dangerous? What

he supposed, for example, Ham would do, if he and Steerforth ever should

encounter?

‘I doen’t know, sir,’ he replied. ‘I have thowt of it oftentimes, but I

can’t awize myself of it, no matters.’

I recalled to his remembrance the morning after her departure, when we

were all three on the beach. ‘Do you recollect,’ said I, ‘a certain wild

way in which he looked out to sea, and spoke about “the end of it”?’

‘Sure I do!’ said he.

‘What do you suppose he meant?’

‘Mas’r Davy,’ he replied, ‘I’ve put the question to myself a mort o’

times, and never found no answer. And theer’s one curious thing--that,

though he is so pleasant, I wouldn’t fare to feel comfortable to try and

get his mind upon ‘t. He never said a wured to me as warn’t as dootiful

as dootiful could be, and it ain’t likely as he’d begin to speak any

other ways now; but it’s fur from being fleet water in his mind, where

them thowts lays. It’s deep, sir, and I can’t see down.’

‘You are right,’ said I, ‘and that has sometimes made me anxious.’

‘And me too, Mas’r Davy,’ he rejoined. ‘Even more so, I do assure you,

than his ventersome ways, though both belongs to the alteration in him.

I doen’t know as he’d do violence under any circumstances, but I hope as

them two may be kep asunders.’

We had come, through Temple Bar, into the city. Conversing no more now,

and walking at my side, he yielded himself up to the one aim of his

devoted life, and went on, with that hushed concentration of his

faculties which would have made his figure solitary in a multitude.

We were not far from Blackfriars Bridge, when he turned his head and

pointed to a solitary female figure flitting along the opposite side of

the street. I knew it, readily, to be the figure that we sought.

We crossed the road, and were pressing on towards her, when it occurred

to me that she might be more disposed to feel a woman’s interest in the

lost girl, if we spoke to her in a quieter place, aloof from the crowd,

and where we should be less observed. I advised my companion, therefore,

that we should not address her yet, but follow her; consulting in this,

likewise, an indistinct desire I had, to know where she went.

He acquiescing, we followed at a distance: never losing sight of her,

but never caring to come very near, as she frequently looked about.

Once, she stopped to listen to a band of music; and then we stopped too.

She went on a long way. Still we went on. It was evident, from the

manner in which she held her course, that she was going to some fixed

destination; and this, and her keeping in the busy streets, and I

suppose the strange fascination in the secrecy and mystery of so

following anyone, made me adhere to my first purpose. At length she

turned into a dull, dark street, where the noise and crowd were lost;

and I said, ‘We may speak to her now’; and, mending our pace, we went

after her.