rock-bound. Here were no bright costumes, no bright faces, none
stayed to greet another; all was stern, and swift, and voiceless.
London, then, said I to myself, is the city of the giants. They must
live in these towering castles side by side, and these hurrying
thousands are their driven slaves.

But this passed also, and we sank lower yet until we reached a third
city, where a pale mist filled each sombre street. None of the
beautiful things of the world were to be seen here, but only the
things coarse and ugly. And wearily to and fro its sunless passages
trudged with heavy steps a weary people, coarse-clad, and with dull,
listless faces. And London, I knew, was the city of the gnomes who
labour sadly all their lives, imprisoned underground; and a terror
seized me lest I, too, should remain chained here, deep down below the
fairy city that was already but a dream.

We stopped at last in a long, unfinished street. I remember our
pushing our way through a group of dirty urchins, all of whom, my aunt
remarked in passing, ought to be skinned. It was my aunt's one
prescription for all to whom she took objection; but really in the
present instance I think it would have been of service; nothing else
whatever could have restored them to cleanliness. Then the door
closed behind us with an echoing clang, and the small, cold rooms came
forward stiffly to greet us.

The man in grey went to the one window and drew back the curtain; it
was growing dusk now. My aunt sat on a straight, hard chair and
stared fixedly at the three-armed gaselier. My mother stood in the
centre of the room with one small ungloved hand upon the table, and I
noticed--for I was very near--that the poor little one-legged thing