Narrowing my eyes against the bite of it, I walked on briskly, listening to the far-off sounds of police whistles. Ahead was Mrs. Hennessey’s house, where friends-also nursing sisters-and I had taken a flat. As I drew nearer, I saw that there were no lights shining from the windows of the ground floor, and I remembered that this must be Mrs. Hennessey’s night for dinner and a cozy gossip with an old friend. Above, on the second storey, the windows of our sitting room were also dark. Tired as I was from two days of traveling, I was just as glad that no one else was in London. I could leave the gifts I’d found for each flatmate with Mrs. Hennessey. She would enjoy playing Father Christmas when next she saw them.

Busy with my own thoughts, I didn’t at first notice the dark figure huddled in the shallow outer doorway, pressed so tightly into that pitiful bit of shelter that only a vague outline was distinguishable in the shadows cast by the streetlamp. When I did, my first thought was that the deserter was hiding here. Would he force his way into the empty house when I reached Mrs. Hennessey’s door?

And in the same instant, I realized that it wasn’t a man, it was a woman.

But what was she doing there? Did she have anything to do with the deserter?

As I slowed, she stirred, murmured, “Sorry!” and moved into the street away from me.

Two things registered as she spoke. Her voice was thick with tears, and she was shivering, as if she’d been out in this wind for a very long time.

I remembered what the man on the omnibus had said, that this was a night not fit for man nor beast.

“No, wait-” I said, putting out a hand to stop her. But she shrugged it off, keeping her face turned away as she made to slip off into the night. It was close on ten o’clock now, and the empty streets were no place for a woman to be walking aimlessly at this hour.