Robert Goddard

It had rained all morning in Holborn. The traffic had reduced the street to squelching lines of mud, whilst standing pools in sluggish gutters encroached on the crowded pavements. Awnings dripped and horses steamed; costermongers cursed and carts lurched; the louring clouds chocked and smeared the business of the day. Every surface was clammy, every small silence invaded by the irregular percussion of the rain. Where did the river end and the city begin? No man, squinting and storm-collared, could be certain on such a day as this.