Explore "Keep the Aspidistra Flying" by George Orwell on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The plumes of the chimneys floated perpendicular against skies of smoky rose.
Gordon caught the 27 bus at ten past eight. The streets were still locked in their Sunday sleep. On the doorsteps the milk bottles waited ungathered like little white sentinels. Gordon had fourteen shillings in his hand--thirteen and nine, rather, because the bus fare was threepence. Nine bob he had set aside from his wages--God knew what that was going to mean, later in the week!--and five he had borrowed from Julia.