Not having any hope of ever, being different, not being able to imagine any other life, they were not so wasteful of their strength as to attempt either to hope or to imagine.

Here and there, too, very slowly passed old men and women, crawling along, like winter bees who, in some strange and evil moment, had forgotten to die in the sunlight of their toil, and, too old to be of use, had been chivied forth from their hive to perish slowly in the cold twilight of their days.
Down the centre of the street Thyme saw a brewer's dray creeping its way due south under the sun.

Three horses drew it, with braided tails and beribboned manes, the brass glittering on their harness.

High up, like a god, sat the drayman, his little slits of eyes above huge red cheeks fixed immovably on his horses' crests.

Behind him, with slow, unceasing crunch, the dray rolled, piled up with hogsheads, whereon the drayman's mate lay sleeping.