The farther I penetrated into London, the profounder grew the
stillness.  But it was not so much the stillness of death--it was the
stillness of suspense, of expectation.  At any time the destruction
that had already singed the northwestern borders of the metropolis,
and had annihilated Ealing and Kilburn, might strike among these
houses and leave them smoking ruins.  It was a city condemned and
derelict. . . .