She was to this extent the creature of mania:  that she could not conceive of a way being open by which she might return to her father and mother, or any of her friends.  It was to her not a matter for her will to decide upon, but simply a black door shut that nothing could displace.  When the week, for which term of shelter she had paid, was ended, her hostess spoke upon this point, saying, more to convince Emilia of the necessity for seeking her friends than from any unkindness:  “Me and my husband can’t go on keepin’ you, you know, my dear, however well’s our meaning.”  Emilia drew the woman toward her with both her lands, softly shaking her head.  She left the house about noon.

It was now her belief that she had probably no more than another day to live, for she was destitute of money.  The thought relieved her from that dreadful fear of the street, and she walked at her own pace, even after dark.  The rumble and the rattle of wheels; the cries and grinding noises; the hum of motion and talk; all under the lingering smoky red of a London Winter sunset, were not discord to her animated blood.  Her unhunted spirit made a music of them.  It was not like the music of other days, nor was the exultation it created at all like happiness:  but she at least forgot herself.  Voices came in her ear, and hung unheard until long after the speaker had passed.  Hunger did not assail her.  She was not beset by an animal weakness; and having in her mind no image of death, and with her ties to life cut away;—­thus devoid of apprehension or regret, she was what her quick blood made her, for the time.  She recognized that, for one near extinction, it was useless to love or to hate:  so Wilfrid and Lady Charlotte were spared.  Emilia thought of them both with a sort of equanimity; not that any clear thought filled her brain through that delirious night.  The intoxicating music raged there at one level depression, never rising any scale, never undulating ever so little, scarcely changing its barbarous monotony of notes.  She had no power over it.  Her critical judgement would at another moment have shrieked at it.  She was moved by it as by a mechanical force.

The South-west wind blew, and the hours of the night were not evil to outcasts.  Emilia saw many lying about, getting rest where they might.  She hurried her eye pityingly over little children, but the devil that had seized her sprang contempt for the others—­older beggars, who appeared to succumb to their fate when they should have lifted their heads up bravely.  On she passed from square to market, market to park; and presently her mind shot an arrow of desire for morning, which was nothing less than hunger beginning to stir.  “When will the shops open?” She tried to cheat herself by replying that she did not care when, but pangs of torment became too rapid for the counterfeit.  Her imagination raised the roof from those great rich houses, and laid bare a brilliancy of dish-covers; and if any sharp gust of air touched the nerve in her nostril, it seemed instantaneously charged with the smell of old dinners.  “No,” cried Emilia, “I dislike anything but plain food.”  She quickly gave way, and admitted a craving for dainty morsels.  “One lump of sugar!” she subsequently sighed.  But neither sugar nor meat approached her.