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street in London was Macadamizing—every shop was selling bargains;—the pale pink, blue, and primrose ribands were making one effort for final sale, before the purples and crimsons of winter set in. Women in black gowns, and drab-coloured shawls hung upon their shoulders as if they were pegs in a passage—men in coats something between a great-coat and a frock—strings of hackney-coaches which moved not—stages which drove along with an empty, rattling sound—and carts laden with huge stones, now filled Piccadilly. All the windows, that is to say all of any pretensions, had their shutters closed, excepting here and there an open parlour one, where the old woman left in care of the house sat for her amusement.