She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. His course had been observed by the watchman, who directed Wild which way to take. She did not open the Bible but laid it on the edge of the bed, knelt and rested her forehead upon the worn leather cover. As they passed beneath the thick trees that shade the road to Dollis Hill, the gloom was almost impenetrable.
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