in A Wild Day.
All the associations of November, the traditional flotsam left upon its shore by the successive tides of history, went ill with halcyon weather. It was the wind-month, the blood month, Brumaire, the month of darkness: its sign was the evil scorpion, who, when surrounded by a ring of fire, was said to sting itself
and die of its own poison.
When she reached the Embankment
she met the full force of the gale,
and exulted in it.
Yes this was the kind of weather
that the events of the world called for:
a wild, dark day, suitable for a wild, dark mood.
From the two tall chimneys of the power station the smoke streamed out horizontally,
a black banner and a white one. The river was at three-quarter flood.
It looked like a battlefield, water and wind meeting angrily
in a thousand small hand-to-hand contests.
But in an hour or so the tide would turn.
* see below