Hyde Park engendered shadows. The dying greenery of hurtbushes and larches, under the grey shells of clouds that now began to snap with rain, caught that feeble light in London, neither night nor day but rather that feeble compromise which, more than the presage of autumn, filled one with a sense of long-forgotten things and showed itself to be that time when vague yearnings and regrets began to cumber the soul. Over the plains of grass burst puffs of irregular wind, spirits that spun the falling leaves, hectic, red, flapping through the wake in little side streets where, now, no one was to be seen, having long since hurried away through the silence and the telling cold. The ragged mirage of day had suicided into the cold dusk. Night fell.