He has pulled off his blue trousers and tunic and thrown them into a corner--two objects which have grown heavy and rusty, like tools.

But the dirty shell of his toil did upholster him a little, and he emerges from it gaunter, and horribly squeezed within the littleness of a torturing jacket.

His bony legs, in trousers too wide and too short, break off at the bottom in long and mournful shoes, with hillocks, and resembling crocodiles; and their soles, being soaked in paraffin, leave oily footprints, rainbow-hued, in the plastic mud.
Perhaps it is because of this dismal companion towards whom I turn my head, and whom I see trotting slowly and painfully at my side in the rumbling grayness of the evening exodus, that I have a sudden and tragic vision of the people, as in a flash's passing.

(I do sometimes get glimpses of the things of life momentarily.) The dark doorway to my vision seems torn asunder.

Between these two phantoms in front the sable swarm outspreads.