It was a drizzly Thursday night in London. The feast of St. Michael the Archangel was lately over and the Lord of Chancellor was sitting in Lincoln’s Inn Hall anxiously. There was merciless November weather outside.There was so much mud in the streets that one would think the earth had just been out of a very heavy rainfall and it would not be wonderful to meet a Megalosaurus which has roughly forty feet long, waddling like an elephantine lizard up Halborn Hill. As smoke was lowering down from chimney-pots, it was making a spongy mizzle, with flakes of soot in it. It was as big as full-grown snowflakes,which had gone into mourning, one can imagine for the sunset.Dogs were undistinguishable in swamp.Horses were scarcely better and splashed to their very blinkers.Foot passengers were pushing each other’s umbrellas in a general infection of ill temper, and lost their foot-hold at street-corners, where tens of thousands of other foot passengers have been slipping and sliding since the day broke.(if this day ever broke).They added new deposit to the crust upon crust of mud, stuck at those points, constantly to the pavement and accumulated at compound interests.
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