Once outside she ran in terror, turning uphill at the first corner so as to get quickly out of range of the windows.

The heavens were emptying themselves with determined violence, and Joanna rejoiced in the downpour. She gave herself to it, lifting her face to the drench. Soon she stoped running, but held to a rapid walk, as though bound on some definite errand. “I mustn’t think! I mustn’t think!” she told herself, making the words keep time with her footfalls – “Not till I get away. Not till I find a place to hide in.”

Soon she was in a road where green tram-cars were running. She swung herself on to a westward-bound car between stopping places, and enjoyed the excitement of the spring. There were empty seats inside, but Joanna climbed upstairs.

The straight rain came down torrential, and recoiled hissing from the stone setts. The dark slate roofs gleamed against a slowly lightening pall of sky as if they had been varnished. On the exposed Kelvin Bridge a few shining umbrellas hurried and fought their way across to the comparative shelter of the houses at each end. Joanna, with fierce satisfaction grew wetter and wetter. Perhaps she would get pneumonia and die. Father had died of pneumonia. But she felt beautifully warm from her run.

When the car reached the terminus, she got down and struck off sharply to the right – her quickest way of reaching wooded country. After passing some unsightly tenement blocks and crossing the canal, she took an uphill bend between hedges in which last year’s leaves rattled fretfully. It was a narrow lane, and for a while she was kept back by a horse and cart. The big, beautiful bulk of the horse was strained to the incline in a cloud of steam, and steam flew back in gusts from its nostrils. But Joanna must get on: so she ran up the slippery bank, and was soon far ahead. With every step she fled back to her childhood, back to the protection of dreams. She was seeking the woods as Juley would have taken refuge in prayer. She had failed and must find comfort. There was not yet in her the strength to face failure uncomforted.

And at last she was in the country, though it was all wrapped in cold clouds and mist. There were pastures now on either side, divided by grey stone dykes. A mare on the road shied badly at the lines of white water standing in the fields, and her rider, bowing before the arrowy rain, punished her reeking flanks viciously with his crop.

Still farther on, the road crossed a stream that flowed level with its banks. It was the colour of flint, and the white, angry little crests on its surface were like parings of horn. Joanna pulled off her gloves, took Bob’s penny ring from her finger, and dropped it into the water. It disappeared without a splash. That was done, anyhow! Her gloves were too wet to put on again, so she flung them after the ring.