You pass from the old universe of the traveller into the silent flow of the almost abstract modern world; while upstairs, under the glass roof, the great burning steel monsters with the high wheels and the long oily rods chunter rhythmically, the porters in smocks with brass badges shout and farewells are said. Like the untiring waves of the sea to which it is heading, all this ceaseless to-ing and fro-ing continues to burden and cast a gloom over the Gare du Nord.

He'd got permission to see me every Sunday he yawned uncovering his yellow teeth the decay of the molars the inside of his mouth a purplish pink like the flesh of fat figs opened up by the rain.

They moved forwards and backwards in childlike posturings, smiled at each other, poised, bowed, and hopped on one leg just like two old marionettes made to dance by an ancient, slightly broken machine built many moons ago by a skilled artisan, in the style of the times.

Gathering all his remaining strength, Hilaire still had enough to protest: 'But what will Monsieur Chalabar, my office manager, say?' It was obvious that the mysterious woman cared as much about Monsieur Chalabar as about her first pair of false eyelashes. She was already briskly hailing a taxi and ushering Hilaire, now at the end of his tether, into it.