  Immortal?... No, they cannot be, these people, nor I. Tired faces, eyes that have never seen the world, bodies that have never lived in air, lips that have never minted speech, they are the clipped and garbled, blocking the highway. They swarm and eddy between the banks of glowing shops towards the red meat, the potherbs, the cheapjacks, or surge in before the swift rush of the clanging trams,— pitiful, ugly, mean, encumbering. Immortal?... In a wood, watching the shadow of a bird leap from frond to frond of bracken, I am immortal. But these? F. S. Flint
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