Outside St. James's Palace on Piccadilly, the crowd of protesters was growing steadily.
Today's weather in London was still dismal; after the morning, the sun's face was veiled with a layer of haze.
Now, a cold, solemn drizzle began to fall.
The continual drip-dripping of raindrops on the brick-paved promenade produced mud from the cracks between the tiles, coating West London's usually clean and orderly streets in a layer of grimy gloom.
A pair of nearly transparent square-toed shoes stomped solidly on the muddied pavement, splashing the already ragged trouser legs with half of the muddy water, while the other half seeped coldly through the seams of their coarse hemp socks, stinging their long-numbed nerves.