CHARLES DİCKENS-PARAGRAPH 2

There is fog everywhere.Fog is up the river where flows among greeen aits and meadows; fog is down the river where it rolls defiled among the tiers of shipping and the waterside pollutions of a great and dirty city.Fog is Essex marshes, fog is on the Kentish heights.Fog is creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs; fog is lying out on the yards and hovering in the rigging of great ships; fog is drooping on the gunwales of barges and small boats.Fog is in the eyes and throats of ancient Greenwich pensioners,wheezing by the firesides of their wards; fog is in the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe of the wrathful skipper, who is down in his close cabin, fog is cruelly pinching the toes and fingers of his shivering little apprentice boy on deck. People who have chance on the bridges are peeping over the parapets into a nether sky of fog,which is with fog all round them, as if they were up in a balloon and were hanging in the misty clouds.