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CHAPTER I.

DORRIS'S JOURNAL.

November 27, 1877.

OMESICKNESS, chills, cold, fog; outside the window, a musky atmosphere, and a dull roar which tells of toiling crowds at a distance; inside, a sombre room, furnished in ugly chintz: in short, London,—London in November, London in a fog, London seen from the windows of a hotel in its darkest, most unlovely aspect. For lack of something better to do, I am wondering vaguely where all the smoke and fog come from. I can picture it rising slowly from millions of factories and breweries, miles upon miles of palaces, and acres of wretched dwellings. The splendor and the squalor are alike hidden by this misty curtain, which settles down by my window, and on my spirits, causing an unpleasant gloom. How the passers-by jostle each other with their umbrellas, and of what a dull color are the brick houses opposite! I take a look at the room, and the prospect is still more depressing. Voluminous cloth curtains obstruct the entrance of the feeble yellow