But no
suggestion of a landmark--nothing except a cone of light
which was filled with fog and cut into on both sides by
two steaming and rhythmically moving horseflanks. It was
like a very small room, this space of light--the buggy
itself, in darkness, forming an alcove to it, in which
my hand knew every well-appointed detail. Gradually,
while I was warming up, a sense of infinite comfort came,
and with it the enjoyment of the elvish aspect.
I began to watch the fog. By bending over towards the
dashboard and looking into the soon arrested glare I
could make out the component parts of the fog. It was
like the mixture of two immiscible liquids--oil, for
instance, shaken up with water. A fine, impalpable, yet
very dense mist formed the ground mass. But in it there
floated myriads of droplets, like the droplets of oil in
water. These droplets would sometimes sparkle in a mild,
unobtrusive way as they were nearing the light; and then
they would dash against the pane and keep it dripping,
dripping down.
I leaned back again; and I watched the whole of the
light-cone. Snow white wisps would float and whirl through
it in graceful curves, stirred into motion by the horses'
trot.
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