drip, drip, drip

Raindrops, caught in a spider's web.  It was very, very wet here last night and this morning.  But drip, drip, drip to a reader of Dickens can only call up one place: the terrace at the dampest of all country houses, Chesney Wold, and Lady Dedlock walking up and down the Ghost's Walk, on which rain always seems to be falling.  As I walk up and down, up and down the back yard here, calling it Exercise, there's something very Lady Dedlockian about it, indeed.