Her tittle-tattle accosts another subject.

I feel the enormous difference there was between what she asked me and what I answered.
The streets are clad in the mourning of closed shops.

It is still the same empty and hermetically sealed face of the day of holiday.

My eyes notice, near the sunken post, the old jam-pot, which has not moved.
I climb on to Chestnut Hill.

No one is there, because it is Sunday.
In that white winding-sheet, that widespread pallor of Sunday, all my former lot builds itself again, house by house.
I look outwards from the top of the hill.