About a foot of the German end of it broke off and was dissolved.
"We're within range of our guns," said our witch, looking down.

"This cloud must be sinking." "It will never sink enough to save you," said the German, trying to conceal the nervousness with which she rearranged her rigid-looking cloak round her.

She seemed to be sinking herself to a certain extent; perhaps the warmth of her emotions was melting the cloud beneath her.
Certainly she now sat, apparently squat as an idol, her figure submerged in cloud to the waist.
The English witch looked down, singing a little to keep up her _morale_.
London looked exactly like the maps you buy for sixpence from sad-looking gentlemen in the Strand, only it was sown with a thin crop of lights, and was chiefly designed in grey and darker grey, and the Tubes did not show so indecently.

With surprising clearness the rhythmic whispering of the trains and the scanty traffic could be heard, and once even the shrill characteristic voice of an ambulance.

Somehow space did not seem disturbed by these sounds; its quietness pressed upon the listeners' minds like a heavy dream, and there was no real believing in anything but space.