One morning a monstrous tree of smoke, like the ghost of a huge palm tree half a mile in height, rose above the giant Telegraph Hall which suddenly fell into a complete ruin.
Whilst half the town was in flames, the other half pursued its accustomed life.

In the mornings, milk pails could be heard jingling in the dairy carts.

In a deserted avenue some old navvy might be seen seated against a wall slowly eating hunks of bread with perhaps a little meat.

Almost all the presidents of the trusts remained at their posts.
Some of them performed their duty with heroic simplicity.

Raphael Box, the son of a martyred multi-millionaire, was blown up as he was presiding at the general meeting of the Sugar Trust.