It Was Understood That Nothing Of A

The Appearance Presented By The Streets Of London An Hour Before Sunrise, On A Summer's Morning, Is Most Striking Even To The Few Whose Unfortunate Pursuits Of Pleasure, Or Scarcely Less Unfortunate Pursuits Of Business, Cause Them To Be Well Acquainted With The Scene. There Is An Air Of Cold, Solitary Desolation About The Noiseless Streets Which We Are Accustomed To See Thronged At Other Times By A Busy, Eager Crowd, And Over The Quiet, Closely-shut Buildings, Which Throughout The Day Are Swarming With Life And Bustle, That Is Very Impressive.

... As Lonesome As A Kitten In A Wash-house Copper With The Lid On.

Along The Paris Streets, The Death-carts Rumble, Hollow And Harsh. Six Tumbrils Carry The Day's Wine To La Guillotine.

Prowling About The Rooms, Sitting Down, Getting Up, Stirring The Fire, Looking Out The Window, Teasing My Hair, Sitting Down To Write, Writing Nothing, Writing Something And Tearing It Up...

The Day Was Made For Laziness, And Lying On One's Back In Green Places, And Staring At The Sky Till Its Brightness Forced One To Shut One's Eyes And Go To Sleep.