The yellow jog came creeping down The bridges, till the houses' walls Seemed changed to shadows, and St. Paul's Loomed like a bubble o'er the town. Oscar Wilde
A swirling fog held London in a clammy clasp last week, muffling its powerful pulsebeat to a mere mark-time. The air tasted vaguely sulphurous and had the faintest odor of wet ashes.
Street lights swung suspended in midair like furry halos. Snub-nosed busses, bunched in convoys, crawled in low gear behind inspectors pacing ahead with lanterns. Three passengers were killed in a suburban...
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