Beauty in the sudden golden shadows of some corner shop glittering through the mist; beauty in the overshadowing of the many towers that were like grey clouds in mid-air.
The little streets chattered with people--undergraduates in Norfolk jackets, grey flannel trousers short enough to show the brightest of socks, walked arm in arm--voices rang out--men called across the streets--hansoms rattled like little whirlwinds along the cobbles---many bells were ringing--dark bodies, leaning from windows, gave uncouth cries.

.

.

over it all the mellow lamplight.
Into this happy confusion Olva Dune plunged.

He shook off from him, as a dog shakes water from his back, the memory of that white mist-haunted road.