ItwasNovember.Thefineweatherhadquitegonenow,andwithitmuchofthesweetpleasureofJimandLiza'slove.WhentheycameoutatnightontheEmbankmenttheyfounditcoldanddrearysometimesalightfogcoveredtheriver-banks,andmadethelampsglowoutdimandlargealightrainwouldbefalling,whichsentachillintotheirverysoulsfootpassengerscamealongatrareintervals,holdingupumbrellas,andstaringstraightinfrontofthemastheyhurriedalonginthedampandcoldacabwouldpassrapidlyby,splashingupthemudoneachside.Thebenchesweredeserted,except,perhaps,forsomepoorhomelesswretchwhocouldaffordnoshelter,and,huddledupinacorner,withhisheadburiedinhisbreast,wassleepingheavily,likeadeadman.ThewetmudmadeLiza'sskirtsclingaboutherfeet,andthedampwouldcomeinandchillherlegsandcreepupherbody,tillsheshivered,andforwarmthpressedherselfcloseagainstJim.Sometimestheywouldgointothethird-classwaiting-roomsatWaterlooorCharingCrossandsitthere,butitwasnotliketheparkortheEmbankmentonsummernightstheyhadwarmth,buttheheatmadetheirwetclothessteamandsmell,andthegasflaredintheireyes,andtheyhatedthepeopleperpetuallycominginandout,openingthedoorsandlettinginablastofcoldairtheyhatedthenoiseoftheguardsandportersshoutingoutthedepartureofthetrains,theshrillwhistlingofthesteam-engine,thehurryandbustleandconfusion.Abouteleveno'clock,whenthetrainsgrewlessfrequent,theygotsomequietnessbutthentheirmindsweretroubled,andtheyfeltheavy,sadandmiserable.
OneeveningtheyhadbeensittingatWaterlooStationitwasfoggyoutside—athick,yellowNovemberfog,whichfilledthewaiting-room,enteringthelungs,andmakingthemouthtastenastyandtheeyessmart.Itwasabouthalf-pasteleven,andthestationwasunusuallyquietafewpassengers,inwrapsandovercoats,werewalkingtoandfro,waitingforthelasttrain,andoneortwoporterswerestandingaboutyawning.LizaandJimhadremainedforanhourinperfectsilence,filledwithagloomyunhappiness,asofagreatweightontheirbrains.Lizawassittingforward,withherelbowsonherkne