seven o'clock
19 Bellringer Street . I ran down to the sitting-room , to ask my landlady where it was , and told her , in my new hopefulness , that I had heard of a situation in France . Bellringer Street was less than a mile away , she said . I could be there before seven o'clock , not too late perhaps for Mrs. Wilkinson to give me an interview . A thick yellow fog had come in with nightfall -- a fog that could almost be tasted and smelt -- but it did not deter me from my object . I inquired my way of every policeman I met , and at length entered the street . The fog hid the houses from my view , but I could see that some of the lower windows were filled with articles for sale , as if they were shops struggling into existence .