In November, the fog in London was thicker than in previous years.
A black carriage slowly approached White Hall from the direction of the docks, the wheels rolling over the wet cobblestone road, splashing mud onto the ragged felt hat of a scavenger by the roadside.
The scavenger cursed, looked up at the carriage, but the windows were tightly shut, the curtains drawn, revealing nothing inside.
Inside the carriage, the Earl of Dalmo leaned in the corner, his face pale as if he had just climbed out of a grave.
His legs could barely move; the harsh climate of Canada had frozen his joints, and the turbulent journey back by sea had almost emptied his stomach, while the London fog...
Dalmo took a deep breath, the familiar smell of coal smoke invading his lungs, causing him to cough violently.
He coughed so fiercely that his entire body bent over.
His accompanying private secretary, Edward Ellis, moved to help, but was pushed away by him.
"Leave me alone."
