From beyond the low hills across the water came the dull resonance of distant guns and a remote weird crying.
Then everything was still. A cockchafer came droning over the hedge and past us. High in the west the crescent moon hung faint and pale above the smoke of Weybridge and Shepperton and the hot, still splendour of the sunset. "We had better follow this path," I said, "northward."
My younger brother was in London when the Martians fell at Woking.