Once out in the street⁠—and strangely enough before his mind reverted to Gerda at all⁠—Wolf found himself recalling something he had hardly noticed at the time, but which now assumed a curious importance. Between the pages of the volume of the Urn-Burial which he had taken down from Christie’s shelf, there had lain a grey feather. “Her marker, I suppose!” he said to himself, as he made his way back to the High Street.

But soon enough, now, in the hard metallic sunshine and the sharp wind, his obsession for the stonecutter’s daughter rose up again and dominated his consciousness. With rapid strides he made his way through the chief thoroughfares of the town, witnessing on every side all manner of bustling lively preparations for the Saturday afternoon’s marketing.