After the stir and ceaseless traffic of the day, the silence of Piccadilly early in the morning, in the small hours, seems barely credible. It is unnatural and rather ghostly. The great street in its emptiness has a sort of solemn broadness, descending in a majestic sweep with the assured and stately ease of a placid river. The are is pure and limpid, but resonant, so that a solitary cab suddenly sends the whole street ringing, and the heavy pace of the horse resounds with long reverberations. Impressive because of their regularity, the electric lights, self-assertive and brazen, flood the surroundings with a strong and snowy brightness; with a kind of indifferent violence they cast their light upon the huge silent houses, and lower down throw into distinctness the long evenness of the park railings and the nearer trees. And between, outshone, like an uneven string of discolored gems, twinkles the yellow flicker of the gas jets.
There is silence everywhere, but the houses are quiet and still with a different silence form the rest, standing very white but for the black gaping of the many windows. In their sleep, closed and bolted, they line the pavement, helplessly as it were, disordered and undignified, having lost all significance without the busy hum of human voices and the hurrying noise of persons passing in and out.
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