In Hyde Park [...] they are burning rubbish, and peacocks with startled eyes hoot at the sinking year. London is sacked. [...] Character goes. The city is once again a formless continent of brick. The rumour of cold sharpens the eye to note distressing detail and endless replica. [...] In the mist, each brick is in travail. At this time, London, like a rough Sack, holds everything. ¹