The bridges catch silent fire and swallow themselves into the sea. Silence speaks the language of size. So far out, the explosions come only as a faint rumble. But as all lines of communication go down, another resonance carries direct, without diminution or loss, on the historical ether of pure nothing. In Gotham City’s crashing bridges, there, once more, are the falling towers.

'On reaching the water-side, a spectacle at once sublime and appalling busrt upon my eye – St. Stephen’s Chapel in flames, with the House of Lords a little further to the south, and (the sensation which I felt at the sight as an antiquary and a British subject, I shall not easily forget) the gable of Westminster Hall, contiguous to the fire, apparently alight in two or three places! –'