Everywhere is foggy. The fog is going up with river to the places that the river flows among green aits and meadows. Fog is going down the river, where it rolls defiled among the tiers of shipping and the waterside pollitions are a great and dirty city. Fog is on Essex marshes. Fog is on the Kentish heights. Fog is lying out on the yards and is havering in the ringgining of great ships. Fog is dropping on the gunwales of barges and small boats. Fog is in the eyes and throats of ancident Green wards. Fog is in the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe close cabin, fog is cruelly pinching the toes and fingers of his shivering little prentice boy who is on deck. People are changing on the bridge peeping over the parapets into a nether sky of fog and with fog all around them, as if they were up in a balloon and is hanging in the misty clouds.