There were the same streets and the identical houses with their white and blue walls, whitewashed, or frescoed in bad imitation of granite; the church continued to show its illuminated clock face; there were the same Chinese shops with their soiled curtains and their iron gratings, in one of which was a bar that he, in imitation of the street urchins of Manila, had twisted one night; it was still unstraightened.

"How slowly everything moves," he murmured as he turned into Calle Sacristia.

The ice-cream venders were repeating the same shrill cry, "_Sorbeteee!_" while the smoky lamps still lighted the identical Chinese stands and those of the old women who sold candy and fruit.
"Wonderful!" he exclaimed.

"There's the same Chinese who was here seven years ago, and that old woman--the very same! It might be said that tonight I've dreamed of a seven years' journey in Europe.

Good heavens, that pavement is still in the same unrepaired condition as when I left!" True it was that the stones of the sidewalk on the corner of San Jacinto and Sacristia were still loose.
While he was meditating upon this marvel of the city's stability in a country where everything is so unstable, a hand was placed lightly on his shoulder.