Once I went and leaned over the balcony, trying to hit on a word that would not come.

Miles down below, little people crawled over the cobbled street, little carts rattled, little workmen let down casks into a cellar.

It was all very grey, small, and clear.
Through the open window of an opposite garret I could see a sculptor working at a colossal clay model.

In his white blouse he seemed big, out of all proportion to the rest of the world.

Level with my eyes there were flat lead roofs and chimneys.