“I throw it out in passing,” he said. They are things faint and slight in themselves, as physical facts, but they are like the detonator of a bomb: they let loose the explosive. “We are, or rather we were, so much alike then that the portrait of either of us would have done for the other. Upon which Mrs. Ye gods! what a wilderness it is! Every one trying to get the better of every one, every one regardless of every one—it’s one of those days when every one bumps against you—every one pouring coal smoke into the air and making confusion worse confounded, motor omnibuses clattering and smelling, a horse down in the Tottenham Court Road, an old woman at the corner coughing dreadfully—all the painful sights of a great city, and here you come into it to take your chances.
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