The night engulfed the outlines of the south bank of the Thames River, and the low-lying London fog blurred the boundaries of the human heart.
The night fog, as thick as spread-out butter, cast a sickly orange glow on the gas lamps of Yellow Chrysanthemum Street.
A tall man was hastily weaving through the alleys.
He wore a faded cloak, his old leather boots caked with mud, and his hat brim pulled so low that not even the drunken man relieving himself at the alley entrance could see his face clearly.
His walking posture was somewhat peculiar; on one hand, he maintained the steady rhythm of a London gentleman, while on the other, he seemed to be on guard against something.
He frequently glanced back, avoiding the crowds, deliberately bypassing Pigeon Alley, Swetting Alley, and Beech Alley before slipping into Yellow Chrysanthemum Street, like a notorious thief afraid of being recognized.
