An hour before sunrise in the city there is an air of cold. Solitary desolation about the noiseless streets, which we are accustomed to see thronged at other times by a busy, eager crowd, and over the quiet, closely shut buildings which throughout the day are warming with life. The drunken, the dissipated, and the criminal have disappeared; the more sober and orderly part of the population have not yet awakened to the labors of the day, and the stillness of death is over streets; its very hue seems to be imparted to them, cold and lifeless as they look in the gray, somber light of daybreak. A partially opened bedroom window here and there bespeaks the heat of the weather and the uneasy slumbers of its occupant; and the dim scanty flicker of a light through the blinds of yonder windows denotes the chamber of watching and sickness. Save for that sad light, the streets present no signs of life, nor the houses of habitation. (166 words)

From Boz

By Charles Dickens