London. Michaelmas term lately over, and the Lord Chancellor sitting in Lincoln's Inn Hall.Implacable November weather. As much mud in the streets as if the waters had but newly retiredfrom the face of the earth, and it would not be wonderful to meet a Megalosaurus, forty feet longor so, waddling like an elephantine lizard up Holborn Hill. Smoke lowering down from chimneypots, making a soft black drizzle, with flakes of soot in it as big as full-grown snowflakes-goneinto mourning, one might imagine, for the death of the sun. Dogs, undistinguishable in mire.Horses, scarcely better; splashed to their very blinkers. Foot passengers, jostling one another'sumbrellas in a general infection of ill temper, and losing their foot-hold at street-corners, wheretens of thousands of other foot passengers have been slipping and sliding since the day broke (ifthis day ever broke), adding new deposits to the crust upon crust of mud, sticking at those pointstenaciously to the pavement, and accumulating at compound interest.
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