"Late again," he said. "Come on!"
"Where are we going first?" Thyme asked.
"The Notting Hill district's all we can do to-day if we're to go again
to Mrs. Hughs'. I must be down at the hospital this afternoon."
Thyme frowned. "I do envy you living by yourself, Martin. It's silly
having to live at home."
Martin did not answer, but one nostril of his long nose was seen to
curve, and Thyme acquiesced in this without remark. They walked for
some minutes between tall houses, looking about them calmly. Then Martin
said: "All Purceys round here."
Thyme nodded. Again there was silence; but in these pauses there was
no embarrassment, no consciousness apparently that it was silence, and
their eyes--those young, impatient, interested eyes--were for ever busy
observing.
"Boundary line. We shall be in a patch directly."
"Black?" asked Thyme.
"Dark blue--black farther on."
They were passing down a long, grey, curving road, whose narrow houses,
hopelessly unpainted, showed marks of grinding poverty. The Spring wind
was ruffling straw and little bits of paper in the gutters; under the
bright sunlight a bleak and bitter struggle seemed raging. Thyme said:
"This street gives me a hollow feeling."
Martin nodded. "Worse than the real article. There's half a mile of
this. Here it's all grim fighting.
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