Steven lifted his coat collar as he briskly walked along the platform. A thick layer of fog covered the station. Huge steam engines whistled long, releasing clouds of steam into the cold atmosphere. Everything was greasy, covered in soot. What a dreadful place… what a dreadful city! Steven thought with disgust. His initial excitement for London, its shops, its restaurants, its well-dressed, charming women had faded. Now, in his eyes, the city appeared like a sparkling gem set in a sad frame. He wished he were back in South Africa now… He felt a pang of nostalgia for his homeland—the sun, the blue sky, the blooming gardens… those bushes full of blue jasmine, the climbing plants that scaled every cottage. And here… dirt, grime, and endless crowds moving, rushing, jostling. Restless ants going back and forth around their anthill. He wished he hadn’t come, he thought for a moment. Then he remembered his purpose; his lips tightened decisively, forming a straight line. No, damn it, he wouldn’t back down! He had been planning this moment for years.

He had been planning for years to do what he was about to do. Yes, he would proceed normally! That momentary hesitation, that unexpected doubt in himself, why? Is it worth it? Why this obsession with the past? Why isn’t forgetfulness preferable? All these were just signs of weakness. He wasn’t a boy to change direction and course because of a whim. He was a forty-year-old man, sensible and confident in himself. He would proceed normally. He would do what he had come to England to do. He boarded the train and moved along the carriage aisle, searching for a seat. He waved away a porter who approached him, carrying his own rough leather suitcase. He kept his eyes on the successive compartments. The train was full. Only three days remained until Christmas. Steven Farr looked displeased at the crowded carriages.