Before the mills debouching their hundreds at set hours, the miles upon miles of sordid streets, Roger's eyes saddened.
"I don't know—unless it is to make more room."
"Then why not go now—every one, quickly and cleanly—instead of rotting into it?"
"Suicide? No. Not until you're sure anyhow that you can't do anything to make it better. It can't be the purpose of life, this horrible chaos, like the panic at a fire, with the stronger treading down the weak."
Anne shivered. "The strong—as you call them—have been treading on the weak since the beginning of time and will go on to the end. If it would all stop—just for a day, an hour—not a human being on the face of the earth—not a sound—just silence. Perhaps we could hear then—if there's anything to hear."
"Anne! You're getting morbid. What do you do here all day? How many times a week do you get out?"
"Whenever I want to. I'm not tied here."
"You might as well be, if you take no more advantage of your freedom than you look to have done. You're thinner, Anne, a lot thinner. And I don't like it."
The old man in the other room was thinner, too, so thin that Anne could feel his shoulder blades when she put her arm round to help him.
"I don't think so. I feel all right anyhow."