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["ernesto koko" <ildamailletjoy@automotivelover.com>]

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"Jail," said the strange man, coolly putting his handkerchief into his hat,
which was on the floor at his feet. "Or Coavinses." 

ferelith  evanh  flat AH02 ench  envseg
Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, where it flows among green aits and
meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls deified among the tiers of
shipping and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city. Fog on
the Estee marshes, fog on the Kentish heights. Fog creeping into the
cabooses of collier-brigs; fog lying out on the yards and hovering in the
rigging of great ships; fog drooping on the gunwales of barges and small
boats. Fog in the eyes and throats of ancient Greenwich pensioners, wheezing
by the firesides of their wards; fog in the stem and bowl of the afternoon
pipe of the wrathful skipper, down in his close cabin; fog cruelly pinching
the toes and fingers of his shivering little 'prentice boy on deck. Chance
people on the bridges peeping over the pateets into a nether sky of fog,
with fog all round them, as if they were up in a balloon and hanging in the
misty clouds. 
Gas looming through the fog in divers places in the streets, much as the
sun may, from the spongey fields, be seen to loom by husbandman and
ploughboy. Most of the shops lighted two hours before their time--as the gas
seems to know, for it has a haggard and unwilling look.