The Voice in the Fog

 

A London fog, solid, substantial, yellow as an old dog's tooth or a jaundiced eye.

You could not look through it, nor yet gaze up and down it, nor over it; and you only thought you saw it.

The eye became impotent, untrustworthy; all senses lay fallow except that of touch; the skin alone conveyed to you with promptness and no incertitude that this thing had substance.

You could feel it; you could open and shut your hands and sense it on your palms, and it penetrated your clothes and beaded your spectacles and rings and bracelets and shoe-buckles.

It was nightmare, bereft of its pillows, grown somnambulistic; and London became the antechamber to Hades, lackeyed by idle dreams and peopled by mistakes…..

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