She felt different from them all; she found an omnibus
that was going to King's Cross, but when she was inside it and
looked at the people around her she felt of them all that they had
no reality beside the intensity of her own search. She, hot like a
fiery coal, existed in a land of filmy ghosts. She repeated to
herself over and over, "No. 13A Lynton Street, King's Cross."
She got out opposite the huge station and looked about her. She saw
a policeman and went across to him.
"Can you tell me where Lynton Street is, please?" she asked him.
He smiled. "Yes, miss. Down on your right, then first to your right
again."
She thanked him and wanted for a silly moment to remain with him.
She wanted to stand there where she was, on the island, she couldn't
go back, she was afraid to go forward. Then the moment left her and
she moved on. When she saw Lynton Street written up her heart gave a
strange little whirr and then tightened within herself, but she
marched on and found 13A. A dirty house, pots with ferns in the two
grimy windows, and the walls streaky with white stains against the
grey. The door was ajar and, pushing it a little, she saw a servant-
girl on her knees scrubbing the floor.
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