The man who sat behind a pigeon-hole, and regulated the comings and goings, was for a moment absent. ‘She wants you. Let me lie in Willesden churchyard. Wood was an old friend of mine—and I recollect seeing Jack when he was bound 'prentice to him. While he was meditating flight in this way, and tossing about on the straw, he chanced upon an old broken and rusty fork. And through it all, like a golden thread on a piece of tapestry, weaving in and out of the patterns, the unspoken longing for love.
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