Imogen by Mary Louisa Molesworth — Read

November outside -- a less attractive November than even up in the north among the Fells. For there, at least, though chilly and raw, it was clear and _clean_. Here, in a London lodging, very unexceptionable as to respectability and practical cleanliness, but not much above the average of London lodgings as regards attractiveness, it -- whatever "it" means, the day, the weather, the general atmosphere -- was assuredly not the former, and did not _look_ the latter. For it was a morning of incipient fog; a state of things even less endurable -- like an ailment before it has thoroughly declared itself -- than full-fledged fog at its worst. Naturally so, for mature fog cannot last more than a day or two after all, whereas indefinite fog may be indefinite as to duration as well as quality. And besides this, thorough fog has its compensations; you draw down the blinds and light the lamps, and leave off pretending it is a normal day; you feel a certain thrill of not unpleasing excitement; "it is surely _the_ worst that has yet been known" -- what may not be _going_ to happen next; the end of the world, or a German invasion?

Hoarse cries from the streets, rendered still more unearthly by the false sound of distance that comes with the thickened air, garbled tales of adventure filtering up through the basement from the baker's boy, who, through incredible perils, has somehow made his way to the area gate; the children's shouts of gleeful excitement at escaping lessons, seeing that the daily governess "can't possibly be coming now, mamma; " all and everything adds to the general queerness and vague expectancy, in itself a not unexhilarating sensation.