Saturday lives in my memory as a day of suspense. It was a day of lassitude too, hot and close, with, I am told, a rapidly fluctuating barometer. I had slept but little, though my wife had succeeded in sleeping, and I rose early.
Before breakfast, I went into my garden and stood listening, but towards the common, there was nothing stirring but a lark. The milkman came as usual. I heard the rattle of his chariot and I went round to the side gate to ask the latest news.
He told me that the Martians had been surrounded by troops during the night and that guns were expected. Then—a familiar, reassuring note—I heard a train running towards Woking. ‘They aren’t to be killed,’ said the milkman, ‘if that can possibly be avoided.’ I saw my neighbor gardening, chatted with him for a time, and then strolled in to breakfast.
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