The hour of twelve
They walked down the one flight of stairs together , their footsteps echoing up through the empty house ; out on the pavement he called a hansom , held his arm across the wheel as she stepped in ; turned to the cabby , gave him his fare , told him Waterloo Station ; then he leant across the step of the cab and held out his hand . `` Good-bye , Sally , '' he said . She tried to answer him , but her words were dry and clung in her throat . The hour of twelve was tolling out across the water from the little church on Kew Green , when Sally fitted her borrowed latch-key into the door . She had performed the journey back to Kew Bridge in a stupor of mind that could hold no single thought , review no single event with any clearness of vision . It was as if not one evening , but three days , had passed by since she had left the office of Bonsfield & CO. -- the day they had dined together -- the day on which they had watched that terrible fight -- the day , the last of all , when she had awakened from unconsciousness , had struggled through a cruel agony of mind , and had finally said good-bye to him for ever . How was it possible , with the length , breadth and depth of three days all crushed into the microscopic space of five hours -- a dizzy whirling acceleration of time -- how was it possible for her to think logically , consecutively , to even think at all ?