All that was left for him was the work he had not chosen, but at least he would not fail in that, though it was indeed no more than "dust in his mouth." If there had been anything "to work for--" He went to the window, raised it, and let in the uproar of the streets below.

He looked down at the blurred, hurrying swarms and he looked across, over the roofs with their panting jets of vapor, into the vast, foggy heart of the smoke.

Dizzy traceries of steel were rising dimly against it, chattering with steel on steel, and screeching in steam, while tiny figures of men walked on threads in the dull sky.

Buildings would overtop the Sheridan.

Bigness was being served.
But what for?
The old question came to Bibbs with a new despair.