Prologue
_ IN WHICH THE AUTHOR SEEKS TO CAST THE RESPONSIBILITY OF THIS STORY UPON ANOTHER.
At the corner of a long, straight, brick-built street in the far East End of London--one of those lifeless streets, made of two drab walls upon which the level lines, formed by the precisely even window-sills and doorsteps, stretch in weary perspective from end to end, suggesting petrified diagrams proving dead problems--stands a house that ever draws me to it； so that often, when least conscious of my footsteps, I awake to find myself hurrying through noisy, crowded thoroughfares, where flaring naphtha lamps illumine fierce, patient, leaden-coloured faces； through dim-lit, empty streets, where monstrous shadows come and go upon the close-drawn blinds； through narrow, noisome streets, where the gutters swarm with children, and each ever-open doorway vomits riot； past reeking corners, and across waste places, till at last I reach the dreary goal of my memory-driven desire, and, coming to

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