Slate coloured clouds with ragged fringes are drifting slowly overhead. Between them one has a glimpse of higher clouds of a lighter grey. I can hear the gentle swish of the rain striking a clearer note on the gravel path and a duller among the leaves. Sometimes it falls straight and heavy, till the air is full of the delicate grey shading, and for half a foot above the ground there is a haze from the rebound of a million tiny globules.
— Sir Arthur Conan Doyle said that
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