Or it was like the stunning statements of astronomy about the distance of the fixed stars.

He was ascending the house of reason, a thing more hideous than unreason itself.
By the time they reached Dr.Bull's landing, a last window showed them a harsh, white dawn edged with banks of a kind of coarse red, more like red clay than red cloud.

And when they entered Dr.Bull's bare garret it was full of light.
Syme had been haunted by a half historic memory in connection with these empty rooms and that austere daybreak.

The moment he saw the garret and Dr.Bull sitting writing at a table, he remembered what the memory was--the French Revolution.

There should have been the black outline of a guillotine against that heavy red and white of the morning.