All along the ghostly avenue one's eyes follow the toilers' scrambling flight.
The avenue is a wan track cut across the open fields.

Its course is marked afar by lines of puny trees, sooty as snuffed candles; by telegraph posts and their long spider-webs; by bushes or by fences, which are like the skeletons of bushes.

There are a few houses.

Up yonder a strip of sky still shows palely yellow above the meager suburb where creeps the muddy crowd detached from the factory.

The west wind sets quivering their overalls, blue or black or khaki, excites the woolly tails that flutter from muffled necks, scatters some evil odors, attacks the sightless faces so deep-drowned beneath the sky.
There are taverns anon which catch the eye.