The grey stone of the terraces reflected the moods and minds of the prim and proper wives, and their booming political husbands, and the bland and brooding youth who lived here in this lost little town, mad and proud, where time stands still, hidden away somewhere in the grim and windy Northern most reaches of Albion, where people come, but seldom, to be forgotten and to dissipate into the mist. It was dark now, and the town, full of cobblestones and drizzle as it always was, was deserted.
