Explore "Sydney Cove" by J.H.M. Abbott on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
THERE was a November fog in Holborn when Lieutenant Patrick Cartwright turned out of the gloom of the busy thoroughfare into the deeper murkiness of Gray's Inn. A day or two after that tragic evening at Magnus Hall, he had received an intimation from the authorities that his first step in rank had been accorded him. It was the only bright incident in a week that was the unhappiest in his short life.
Beneath the archway of the entrance to the Inn, it was as dark as the blackest midnight, and he groped his way with difficulty into the square, on one side of which he sought the offices of his uncle's solicitors, Messrs. Partridge and Cooper, who were now his own, and with whom, if he could hope to find them, he had important business this particular morning. It was damp and chill in the square, and the opaque brown mist, with its slightly acid taste and mouldy smell, hid every wall and window, and muffled all sounds, so that he had not progressed many paces before he recognised the inevitable fact that he was lost.