Clamor, clamor; noise, noise; the calling of cabmen, the clanging of street-cars, the rumbling of the elevated, the roaring of the drays, the rattling of the carts; shouting, pushing, hurrying, rushing, digging, streaming, pell-mell; the smell of coal-gas, of food cooking, of good and bad tobacco, of wet pavements, of plaster; riches and poverty jostling; romance and reality at war; monoliths of stone and iron; shops, shops; signs, signs; hotels; the tower of Babel; all the nations of the world shouldering one another; Jews and Gentiles, Christians and Turks; jumble, jumble.

This is New York.

There is nothing American about it; there is nothing English, French, German, Latin or Oriental about it.

It is cosmopolitan; that is to say, it represents everything and nothing.
Warrington, Patty and her mother alighted from the train in the gloomy, smoky cavern called the Grand Central Station and walked toward the gates.

There was sunshine outside, but it was scarcely noticeable through the blackened canopy overhead.
"There's John!" cried Patty, seizing her mother's arm.