oot except for some flowers in her hat, she
looked up mechanically at the clock. She thought it must have stopped.
She could not believe that only two minutes had passed since she had
looked at it last. Of course not. It had been stopped all the time. As
a matter of fact, only three minutes had elapsed from the moment she had
drawn the first deep, easy breath after the blow, to this moment when Mrs
Verloc formed the resolution to drown herself in the Thames. But Mrs
Verloc could not believe that. She seemed to have heard or read that
clocks and watches always stopped at the moment of murder for the undoing
of the murderer. She did not care. "To the bridge--and over I go."
. . . But her movements were slow.

She dragged herself painfully across the shop, and had to hold on to the
handle of the door before she found the necessary fortitude to open it.
The street frightened her, since it led either to the gallows or to the
river. She floundered over the doorstep head forward, arms thrown out,
like a person falling over the parapet of a bridge. This entrance into
the open air had a foretaste of drowning; a slimy dampness enveloped her,
entered her nostrils, clung to her hair. It was not actually raining,
but each gas lamp had a rusty little halo of mist. The van and horses
were gone, and in the black street the curtained window of the carters'
eating-house made a square patch of soiled blood-red light glowing
faintly very near the level of the pavement. Mrs Verloc, dragging
herself slowly towards it, thought that she was a very friendless woman.
It was true. It was so true that, in a sudden longing to see some
friendly face, she could think of no one else but of Mrs Neale, the
charwoman. She had no acquaintances of her own. Nobody would miss her
in a social way. It must not be imagined that the Widow Verloc had
forgotten her mother. This was not so. Winnie had been a good daughter
because she had been a devoted sister. Her mother had always leaned on
her for support. No consolation or advice could be expected there. Now
that Stevie was dead the bond seemed to be broken. She could not face
the old woman with the horrible tale. Moreover, it was too far. The
river was her present destination. Mrs Verloc tried to forget her
mother.

Each step cost her an effort of will which seemed the last possible. Mrs
Verloc had dragged herself past the red glow of the eating-house window.
"To the bridge--and over