Mr.
Stone was still standing, pen in hand, presumably deep in thought.

His silvered head and beard moved slightly to the efforts of his brain.

He came over to the window, and, evidently not seeing his son-in-law, faced out into the night.
In that darkness were all the shapes and lights and shadows of a London night in spring: the trees in dark bloom; the wan yellow of the gas-lamps, pale emblems of the self-consciousness of towns; the clustered shades of the tiny leaves, spilled, purple, on the surface of the road, like bunches of black grapes squeezed down into the earth by the feet of the passers-by.

There, too, were shapes of men and women hurrying home, and the great blocked shapes of the houses where they lived.

A halo hovered above the City--a high haze of yellow light, dimming the stars.