that fling jagged bits of darkness across the streets on sunny days.
They are comparatively many, these lovers of solitary musing; and usually seek the quiet of the most deserted streets — those streets to which the Secret Police of the East give the ominous name of dead streets. Perhaps one might say as well, streets of the dead.
At one time we took a special interest in watching those wandering and murmuring spirits. They are of various ages; but most generally advanced in years. The action of the younger men or women is usually quick and nervous; that of the older, slow and meditative. The former often speak angrily as if brooding over some wrong; the latter, rather in sorrow than in anger. All of which is quite natural and to be expected from those who talk to themselves.
What do they talk about?
