And ever the wind sawed, and the sawdust whirled.
When the spring evenings are too long and light to shut out, and such weather is rife, the city which Mr Podsnap so explanatorily called London, Londres, London, is at its worst.

Such a black shrill city, combining the qualities of a smoky house and a scolding wife; such a gritty city; such a hopeless city, with no rent in the leaden canopy of its sky; such a beleaguered city, invested by the great Marsh Forces of Essex and Kent.

So the two old schoolfellows felt it to be, as, their dinner done, they turned towards the fire to smoke.

Young Blight was gone, the coffee-house waiter was gone, the plates and dishes were gone, the wine was going--but not in the same direction.
'The wind sounds up here,' quoth Eugene, stirring the fire, 'as if we were keeping a lighthouse.

I wish we were.' 'Don't you think it would bore us ?' Lightwood asked.
'Not more than any other place.