It rained all the day I spent there and it rained as I drove from my hotel to the Gare de Lyon.
A cheery newspaper informed me that there were torrential rains at Marseilles.

I mentioned this to Rogers, who tried to console me by reminding me that we were only staying at Marseilles for a few hours.
"That has nothing to do with it," said I."At Marseilles I always eat bouillabaisse on the quay.

Fancy eating bouillabaisse in the pouring rain!" As usual, Rogers could not execute the imaginative exercise I prescribed; so he strapped my hold-all with an extra jerk.
Now, when homespun London is wet and muddy, no one minds very much.
But when silken Paris lies bedraggled with rain and mud, she is the forlornest thing under the sky.

She is a hollow-eyed pale city, the rouge is washed from her cheeks, her hair hangs dank and dishevelled, in her aspect is desolation, and moaning is in her voice.

I have a Sultanesque feeling with regard to Paris.