Phileas Fogg's gazes out into the fog-shrouded horizon from a intricately embroidered, copper-plated dressing table mirror, his piercing blue eyes framed by a pair of goggles perched atop his forehead, the sides of his gleaming sharks-tooth-encrusted top hat skewed, as if the force of his rapid globetrotting had dislodged them in the whirl of activity, the glint of polished obsidian cufflinks and a pocket watch gleaming on his immaculate, three-piece suit of burnt orange, rust, and midnight blue, a treasured silk cravat made from material rescued from the Great Exhibition's unpacked crates, now toned to a warm, fawn-like patina, the chair behind him enriched with an elaborate, occult-inspired inlay of brass filigree and polished ivory, amidst a variegated ensemble of petite, silver and obsidian vials, globes, hourglasses, and lamplight lenses are neatly arranged upon the chair's substantial armrests, conveying an air of brazen, contradcimal whimsy, rationality, or questionable hyper-stationary grounding between his charged reminiscences of sublime adventure, immergible personal exploits, or puzzled speculative inquiries regarding continental impermeability and the momentous sequence of leakages, noticeable improvements in deleterous cleanliness sealed gadget theories, and ever verdant agricultural opinions.