The garden in the middle of Baregrove Square--with its close-cut turf, its vacant beds, its bran-new rustic seats, its withered young trees that had not yet grown as high as the railings around them--seemed to be absolutely rotting away in yellow mist and softly-steady rain, and was deserted even by the cats.

All blinds were drawn down for the most part over all windows; what light came from the sky came like light seen through dusty glass; the grim brown hue of the brick houses looked more dirtily mournful than ever; the smoke from the chimney-pots was lost mysteriously in deepening superincumbent fog; the muddy gutters gurgled; the heavy rain-drops dripped into empty areas audibly.

No object great or small, no out-of-door litter whatever appeared anywhere, to break the dismal uniformity of line and substance in the perspective of the square.

No living being moved over the watery pavement, save the solitary Snoxell.

He plodded on into a Crescent, and still the awful Sunday solitude spread grimly humid all around him.