Война миров

Dead London

           Ajeweller’swindowhadbeenbrokenopeninoneplace,butapparentlythethiefhadbeendisturbed,andanumberofgoldchainsandawatchlayscatteredonthepavement. Ididnottroubletotouchthem. Fartheronwasatatteredwomaninaheaponadoorstep; thehandthathungoverherkneewasgashedandbleddownherrustybrowndress,andasmashedmagnumofchampagneformedapoolacrossthepavement. Sheseemedasleep,butshewasdead. 

           ThefartherIpenetratedintoLondon,theprofoundergrewthestillness. Butitwasnotsomuchthestillnessofdeathitwasthestillnessofsuspense,ofexpectation. Atanytimethedestructionthathadalreadysingedthenorthwesternbordersofthemetropolis,andhadannihilatedEalingandKilburn,mightstrikeamongthesehousesandleavethemsmokingruins. Itwasacitycondemnedandderelict.... 

           InSouthKensingtonthestreetswereclearofdeadandofblackpowder. ItwasnearSouthKensingtonthatIfirstheardthehowling. Itcreptalmostimperceptiblyuponmysenses. Itwasasobbingalternationoftwonotes,"Ulla,ulla,ulla,ulla,"keepingonperpetually. WhenIpassedstreetsthatrannorthwarditgrewinvolume,andhousesandbuildingsseemedtodeadenandcutitoffagain. ItcameinafulltidedownExhibitionRoad. Istopped,staringtowardsKensingtonGardens,wonderingatthisstrange,remotewailing. Itwasasifthatmightydesertofhouseshadfoundavoiceforitsfearandsolitude. 

           "Ulla,ulla,ulla,ulla,"wailedthatsuperhumannotegreatwavesofsoundsweepingdownthebroad,sunlitroadway,betweenthetallbuildingsoneachside. Iturnednorthwards,marvelling,towardstheirongatesofHydePark. 

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