He is silent for a while, and then adds by way of conclusion to all he
has said, and to all that one can say, "_My_ father, he caved in at
fifty. And I shall cave in at fifty, p'raps before."

With his thumb he points through the twilight at that sort of indelible
darkness which makes the multitude, "Them others, it's not the same
with them. There's those that want to change everything and keep going
on that notion. There's those that drink and want to drink, and keep
going that way."

I hardly listen to him while he explains to me the grievances of the
different groups of workmen, "The molders, monsieur, them, it's a
matter of the gangs----"

Just now, while looking at the population of the factory, I was almost
afraid; it seemed to me that these toilers were different sorts of
beings from the detached and impecunious people who live around me.
When I look at this one I say to myself, "They are the same; they are
all alike."

In the distance, and together, they strike fear, and their combination
is a menace; but near by they are only the same as this one. One must
not look at them in the distance.

Pétrolus gets excited; he makes gestures; he punches in and punches out
again with his fist, the hat which is stuck askew on his conical head,
over the ears that are pointed like artichoke leaves. He is in front
of me, and each of his soles is pierced by a valve which draws in water
from the saturated ground.