“Through the slippery streets the crowd pressed on as towards some unquestioned goal. A strange well-being, wroth and weary, filled the air. Close the eyes and not a voice is heard, only the onward panting of the feet. In this throng silence they advanced as best they could, at the edge of the sidewalk, Mercier in front, his hand on the handlebar, Camier behind, his hand on the saddle, and the bicycle slithered in the gutter by their side. You hinder me more than you help me, said Mercier. I’m n...ot trying to help you, said Camier, I’m trying to help myself. Then all is well, said Mercier. I’m cold, said Camier. It was indeed cold. It is indeed cold, said Mercier. Where do our feet think they’re taking us? said Camier. They would seem to be heading for the canal, said Mercier. Already? said Camier. Perhaps we shall be tempted, said Mercier, to strike out along the towpath and follow it till boredom doth ensue. Before us, beckoning us on, without our having to lift our eyes, the dying tints we love so well.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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