supposed it would sprawl so brokenly, through villages and suburbs. I''ve believed it complete: but now, as I watch, there come stretches of wet red land, and gaping trenches; now come half-built houses, and half-built churches, with glassless windows and slateless roofs and jutting spars of wood, naked as bones.
Now there are so many smuts upon the glass they show like faults in the fabric of my veil. The train begins to rise. I don''t like the sensation. We begin to cross streets—grey streets, black streets—so many monotonous streets, I think I shall never be able to tell them apart! Such a chaos of doors and windows, of roofs and chimneys, of horses and coaches and men and women! Such a muddle of hoardings and garish signs: Spanish blinds.—Lead Coffins.—Oil Tallow & Cotton Waste