' Still (the jeweller considers) that
might not apply to all times, though applying to the present time.
'Twenty minutes past two, Mr. Drood, I set your watch at. Let me
recommend you not to let it run down, sir.'
Edwin takes his watch, puts it on, and goes out, thinking: 'Dear
old Jack! If I were to make an extra crease in my neckcloth, he
would think it worth noticing!'
He strolls about and about, to pass the time until the dinner-hour.
It somehow happens that Cloisterham seems reproachful to him to-
day; has fault to find with him, as if he had not used it well; but
is far more pensive with him than angry. His wonted carelessness
is replaced by a wistful looking at, and dwelling upon, all the old
landmarks. He will soon be far away, and may never see them again,
he thinks. Poor youth! Poor youth!
As dusk draws on, he paces the Monks' Vineyard. He has walked to
and fro, full half an hour by the Cathedral chimes, and it has
closed in dark, before he becomes quite aware of a woman crouching
on the ground near a wicket gate in a corner. The gate commands a
cross bye-path, little used in the gloaming; and the figure must
have been there all the time, though he has but gradually and
lately made it out.
He strikes into that path, and walks up to the wicket. By the
light of a lamp near it, he sees that the woman is of a haggard
appearance, and that her weazen chin is resting on her hands, and
that her eyes are staring--with an unwinking, blind sort of
steadfastness--before her.
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