Smith, her mouth wide open, like the mouth of an
eager fish, singing about "the Blood of the Lamb" with unctuous
satisfaction . . .
CHAPTER X
THE PROPHET
The year 1907 had four more days of life: it crept to its grave
through a web and tangle of fog. It was not one of the regular
yellow devils who come and eat up London, first this part, and then
that, then disgorge a little, choking it all up only to snap at it
and swallow it down all bewildered a quarter of an hour after. This
was a cobweb fog spun, as it might be, by some malignant central
spider hidden darkly in his lair. The vapouring-like filmy threads
twisted and twined their way all over London, and for four days and
nights the town was a city of ghosts. Buildings loomed dimly behind
their masks of silver tissue, streets seemed unsubstantial,
pavements had no foundation, streams of water appeared to hang
glittering in mid-air, men and horses would suddenly plunge into
grey abysses and vanish from sight, church-bells would ring peals
high up in air, and there would be, it seemed, no steeple there for
them to ring from. As the sun behind the fog rose and set so the
mist would catch gold and red and purple into the vapours, strange
gleams of brass and silver as though behind its web armies flaunting
their colours were marching through the sky; down on the very earth
itself horses staggered and stumbled on the thin coating of greasy
mud that covered everything; men opened their doors to look out on
to the world, and instantly into the passages there floated such
strange forms and shadows in misty shape that it seemed as though
the rooms were suddenly invaded by a flock of spirits.
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