Explore "The King Behind the King" by Warwick Deeping on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
It was a grey dawn, because of the mist on the river, with a promise of heat and of a cloudless sky. On London Bridge the houses looked as though they were smothered in white smoke, and the river went gliding stealthily with hardly a ripple against the piers. A great, straw-coloured sun hung blurred in the east, and when some bell tolled the sound was heavy and distant.
Grey, too, was the friar who sat on a wooden bench against the wall of a house and waited for the gate of the bridge to open. The friar's cowl was drawn down over his face; his beads hung in a brown loop, and his hands played with them restlessly-hands with big knuckles, and black hair spreading from the wrists.