A bright night; with a fresh breeze.  An old beggar woman, blind, sat against a stone wall in Kingsway holding a brown mongrel in her arms & sang aloud.  There was a recklessness about her; much in the spirit of London.  Defiant - almost gay, clasping her dog as if for warmth.  How many Junes has she sat there, in the heart of London? How she came to be there, what scenes she can go through, I can't imagine. O damn it all, I say, why cant I know all that too? Perhaps it was the song at night that seemed strange; she was singing shrilly, but for her own amusement, not begging. Then the fire engines came by - shrill too; with their helmets pale yellow in the moonlight. Sometimes every thing gets into the same mood; how to define this one I don't know - It was gay, & yet terrible & fearfully vivid.