Practice Typing

A thick milky mist hung over the town. Svidrigalov walked along the slippery dirty wooden pavement towards the Little Neva. He was picturing the waters of the Little Neva swollen in the night, Petrovsky Island, the wet paths, the wet grass, the wet trees and bushes and at last the bush.... He began ill humouredly staring at the houses, trying to think of something else. There was not a cabman or a passer by in the street.