Yet, I Had Nothing Else To Tell; Unless, Indeed, I Were To Confess (which Might Be Of Less Moment Still), That No One Can Ever Believe This Narrative, In The Reading, More Than I Believed It In The Writing.

-Charles Dickens

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Yet, I Had Nothing Else To Tell;

Charles Dickens

Yet, I Had Nothing Else To Tell; Unless, Indeed, I Were To Confess (which Might Be Of Less Moment Still), That No One Can Ever Believe This Narrative, In The Reading, More Than I Believed It In The Writing.

Topic

Reading

Believe

Writing

The Appearance Presented By The Streets Of London An Hour Before Sunrise, On A Summer's Morning, Is Most Striking Even To The Few Whose Unfortunate Pursuits Of Pleasure, Or Scarcely Less Unfortunate Pursuits Of Business, Cause Them To Be Well Acquainted With The Scene. There Is An Air Of Cold, Solitary Desolation About The Noiseless Streets Which We Are Accustomed To See Thronged At Other Times By A Busy, Eager Crowd, And Over The Quiet, Closely-shut Buildings, Which Throughout The Day Are Swarming With Life And Bustle, That Is Very Impressive.

Summer

Morning

Air