(no subject)

There's a terrible trouble to all this weather. Scripps likes the snow and the bitter cold of it all. He's rather fond of going to St. Paul's for his daily worship -- sitting in pews that are ancient as religion itself -- and it's a thrill to wander about and imagine what history took place in these coal-stained streets. The only problem is that Scripps is a sloppy dresser at the best of times and all his clothes seem to have multipled by four the morning he awoke.

There's bits and bobs and this and that and he's left not knowing where half of it even goes. He's sure he's been a horrible sight to see on the streets with his collars-up and his shirts wrinkled and his boots mismatched, but he's hardly going to save himself from any embarrassment, now is he? He hardly knows where to start.

He's doing what he can. He arrives at the clothes-box and studies it cautiously, waiting for knowledge to be imparted. "If I weren't so afraid of false idols, I might've started to pray to you," he informs the tangible thing.