Noon
The last wail of the Funeral March having died away into silence , the last cannon-shot gone booming out , down came the foggy dusk on bereaved London . A chill rime settled on the swaying laurel wreaths , and on the folds of the fluttering purple draperies at the close of the dismal day . The shops were shut , and many of the restaurants , but the windows of the Clubs gleamed radiantly down Piccadilly , and every refreshment-bar and public-house was thronged to bursting . Noon changed to evening , and evening lengthened into night , and the pavements began to be crowded . The Flesh Bazaar was being held in Piccadilly , and all up Regent Street and all down the Haymarket the chaffering went on for bodies and for souls . A deadly physical and mental lassitude weighed on Saxham . His soul was sick with the long , hopeless struggle .