The Third Generation by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Scudamore Lane, sloping down riverwards from just behind the Monument, / lies at night in the shadow of two black and monstrous walls which loom / high above the glimmer of the scattered gas lamps. The footpaths are / narrow, and the causeway is paved with rounded cobblestones, so that / the endless drays roar along it like breaking waves. A few / old-fashioned houses lie scattered among the business premises, and in / one of these, half-way down on the left-hand side, Dr. Horace Selby / conducts his large practice. It is a singular street for so big a man; / but a specialist who has an European reputation can afford to live / where he likes. In his particular branch, too, patients do not always / regard seclusion as a disadvantage.

It was only ten o'clock. The dull roar of the traffic which converged / all day upon London Bridge had died away now to a mere confused murmur. / It was raining heavily, and the gas shone dimly through the streaked / and dripping glass, throwing little circles upon the glistening / cobblestones. The air was full of the sounds of the rain, the thin / swish of its fall, the heavier drip from the eaves, and the swirl and / gurgle down the two steep gutters and through the sewer grating. There / was only one figure in the whole length of Scudamore Lane. It was that / of a man, and it stood outside the door of Dr. Horace Selby.