Margery wondered idly how much of all that talk about the Thames was true; whether horrible things were still done secretly beside her beloved river, hidden and condoned by the river, carried away to the sea.⁠ ⁠… Down in the docks, no doubt.⁠ ⁠… Wapping and so on.

The prosaic thumping of a tug broke the spell of Margery’s imagination. She looked up and down for Stephen’s boat, a faint crossness in her mind because of his lateness. She got into bed. She was sleepy, but she would read and doze a little till he came in.

She woke first drowsily to the hollow sound of oars clattering in a boat, a murmur of low voices and subdued splashings⁠ ⁠… Stephen mooring the boat⁠ ⁠… how late he was.