I touched the curate's leg, and he started so violently that a mass
of plaster went sliding down outside and fell with a loud impact.  I
gripped his arm, fearing he might cry out, and for a long time we
crouched motionless.  Then I turned to see how much of our rampart
remained.  The detachment of the plaster had left a vertical slit open
in the debris, and by raising myself cautiously across a beam I was
able to see out of this gap into what had been overnight a quiet
suburban roadway.  Vast, indeed, was the change that we beheld.