TAYLOR.

I LOVE THIS ANIMAL: HUNTER. MY BOY HUNTER.
HE'LL DRINK YOU FROM A CUP
I DON'T CARE WHAT ANYONE THINKS ABOUT THIS.
Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, where it flows among green aits and meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls defiled among the tiers of shipping, and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city. Fog on the Essex marshes, fog on the Kentish heights. Fog creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs; fog lying out on the yards, hovering in the rigging of great ships; fog drooping on the gunwales of barges and small boats. For in the eyes and throats of ancient Greenwich pensioners, wheezing by the firesides of their wards; fog in the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe of the wrathful skipper, down in his close cabin; fog cruelly pinching the toes and fingers of his shivering little 'prentice boy on the deck. Chance people on the bridges peeping over the parapets into a nether sky of fog, with fog all around them, as if they were up in a balloon, and hanging in the misty clouds.
Fog - Charles Dickens.
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