#Ghost exe life is strange windows

To see the dingy cloud come drooping down, obscuring everything, one might have thought that Nature lived hard by, and was brewing on a large scale. The fog came pouring in at every chink and keyhole, and was so dense without, that although the court was of the narrowest, the houses opposite were mere phantoms.

#Ghost exe life is strange windows

The city clocks had only just gone three, but it was quite dark already - it had not been light all day - and candles were flaring in the windows of the neighbouring offices, like ruddy smears upon the palpable brown air. It was cold, bleak, biting weather: foggy withal: and he could hear the people in the court outside, go wheezing up and down, beating their hands upon their breasts, and stamping their feet upon the pavement stones to warm them. Once upon a time - of all the good days in the year, on Christmas Eve - old Scrooge sat busy in his counting-house. To edge his way along the crowded paths of life, warning all human sympathy to keep its distance, was what the knowing ones call `nutsвЂ™ to Scrooge. Even the blind menвЂ™s dogs appeared to know him and when they saw him coming on, would tug their owners into doorways and up courts and then would wag their tails as though they said, ` No eye at all is better than an evil eye, dark master!вЂ™ But what did Scrooge care! It was the very thing he liked.

Nobody ever stopped him in the street to say, with gladsome looks, `My dear Scrooge, how are you? When will you come to see me?вЂ™ No beggars implored him to bestow a trifle, no children asked him what it was oвЂ™clock, no man or woman ever once in all his life inquired the way to such and such a place, of Scrooge. They often `came downвЂ™ handsomely, and Scrooge never did. The heaviest rain, and snow, and hail, and sleet, could boast of the advantage over him in only one respect. Foul weather didnвЂ™t know where to have him. No wind that blew was bitterer than he, no falling snow was more intent upon its purpose, no pelting rain less open to entreaty. No warmth could warm, no wintry weather chill him. External heat and cold had little influence on Scrooge. He carried his own low temperature always about with him he iced his office in the dogdays and didnвЂ™t thaw it one degree at Christmas. A frosty rime was on his head, and on his eyebrows, and his wiry chin. The cold within him froze his old features, nipped his pointed nose, shrivelled his cheek, stiffened his gait made his eyes red, his thin lips blue and spoke out shrewdly in his grating voice. Oh! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the grind- stone, Scrooge! a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous, old sinner! Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster. Sometimes people new to the business called Scrooge Scrooge, and sometimes Marley, but he answered to both names. The firm was known as Scrooge and Marley. There it stood, years afterwards, above the warehouse door: Scrooge and Marley. Scrooge never painted out Old MarleyвЂ™s name. If we were not perfectly convinced that HamletвЂ™s Father died before the play began, there would be nothing more remarkable in his taking a stroll at night, in an easterly wind, upon his own ramparts, than there would be in any other middle-aged gentleman rashly turning out after dark in a breezy spot - say Saint PaulвЂ™s Churchyard for instance - literally to astonish his sonвЂ™s weak mind. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate. The mention of MarleyвЂ™s funeral brings me back to the point I started from. And even Scrooge was not so dreadfully cut up by the sad event, but that he was an excellent man of business on the very day of the funeral, and solemnised it with an undoubted bargain. Scrooge was his sole executor, his sole administrator, his sole assign, his sole residuary legatee, his sole friend, and sole mourner. How could it be otherwise? Scrooge and he were partners for I donвЂ™t know how many years. Scrooge knew he was dead? Of course he did. You will therefore permit me to repeat, emphatically, that Marley was as dead as a door-nail. But the wisdom of our ancestors is in the simile and my unhallowed hands shall not disturb it, or the CountryвЂ™s done for. I might have been inclined, myself, to regard a coffin-nail as the deadest piece of ironmongery in the trade. Mind! I donвЂ™t mean to say that I know, of my own knowledge, what there is particularly dead about a door-nail.

And ScroogeвЂ™s name was good upon вЂ™Change, for anything he chose to put his hand to. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Stave 1: Marley's Ghost Marley was dead: to begin with.