(Author: Charles Dickens)
There was a steaming mist in all
the hollows, and it had roamed in its forlornness up the hill, like an evil
spirit, seeking rest and finding none. A clammy and intensely cold mist, it
made its slow way through the air in ripples that visibly followed and overspread
one another, as the waves of an unwholesome sea might do. It was dense enough
to shut out everything from the light of the coach- lamps but these its own
workings, and a few yards of road; and the reek of the laboring horses steamed
into it, as if they had made it all…
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