![]() ![]() ![]() Fog on the Essex marshes, fog on the Kentish heights. Fog up the river, where it flows among green aits and meadows fog down the river, where it rolls defiled among the tiers of shipping and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city. ![]() Foot passengers, jostling one another’s umbrellas in a general infection of ill-temper, and losing their foot-hold at street-corners, where tens of thousands of other foot passengers have been slipping and sliding since the day broke (if the day ever broke), adding new deposits to the crust upon crust of mud, sticking at those points tenaciously to the pavement, and accumulating at compound interest.įog everywhere. Horses, scarcely better splashed to their very blinkers. Smoke lowering down from chimney-pots, making a soft black drizzle, with flakes of soot in it as big as full-grown snow-flakes - gone into mourning, one might imagine, for the death of the sun. ![]() As much mud in the streets as if the waters had but newly retired from the face of the earth, and it would not be wonderful to meet a Megalosaurus, forty feet long or so, waddling like an elephantine lizard up Holborn Hill. Michaelmas Term lately over, and the Lord Chancellor sitting in Lincoln’s Inn Hall. ![]()
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