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In the first book I have wandered so much from my own adventures to tell of the experiences of my brother
that all through the last two chapters I and the curate have been lurking in the empty house at Halliford whither we fled
to escape the Black Smoke. There I will resume. We stopped there all Sunday night and all the next day -- the day of the panic
-- in a little island of daylight, cut off by the Black Smoke from the rest of the world. We could do nothing but wait in
aching inactivity during those two weary days.
My mind was occupied by anxiety for my wife. I figured her at Leatherhead, terrified, in danger, mourning
me already as a dead man. I paced the rooms and cried aloud when I though of how I was cut off from her, of all that might
happen to her in my absence. My cousin I knew was brave enough for any emergency, but he was not the sort of man to realise
danger quickly, to rise promptly. What was needed now was not bravery, but circumspection. My only consolation was to believe
that the Martians were moving Londonward and away from her.
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