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“It was your own fault,” she exclaimed. “She wasn’t sane, my wife. How does one get work? She walked along the Strand and across Trafalgar Square, and by the Haymarket to Piccadilly, and so through dignified squares and palatial alleys to Oxford Street; and her mind was divided between a speculative treatment of employment on the one hand, and breezes—zephyr breezes—of the keenest appreciation for London, on the other. Instinctively she knew—some human recollection she had inherited—that she must not disturb him in this man-agony. It ran in rivulets down her face, penetrating her hood and the thick quilting of her coat. I'm always shy the price of the ticket home.
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