A woman hurries past--a child of night whom everybody knows; after her a
sailor and a gentleman in silk hat, both eagerly stepping out to reach her
first. Then two youths with cigars at an impertinent angle, hands in
pockets, speaking loudly. Behind them another woman; finally, a couple of
men hurrying to catch up with her.
But now one tower-clock after another booms forth the twelve solemn
strokes all over the city; the cafes empty themselves, and from the
music-halls crowds of people swarm into the streets. The winches are still
groaning along the docks; cabs roll through the streets. But inside the
hidden offices one old business chief after another has finished his
accounts and his planning; the grey-headed gentlemen close their ledgers,
take their hats from the rack, put out the lights, and go home.
And the last guests depart from the Grand, a crowd that has stuck to the
end, young fellows, joyful souls. They saunter down the street with coats
wide open, canes held jauntily under the arms, and hats slightly askew.
They talk loudly, hum the latest popular air, call jestingly to a lonely,
forgotten girl in a boa and white veil.
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