The road was wide enough to have accommodated four vehicles abreast. For wayfarers on foot there were paths on either side. The line of the road was straight as an arrow, a marvel of engineering; drains at intervals, another far-sighted innovation, carried the runoff of downpours to the sea. The buildings in which the natives lived, empty now, were large enough to hold dozens of families. These too were straight-edged, made of cut-stone blocks or bricks. Where only a few rock pigeons now flap, one has to imagine the scenes of vanished activity: farmers bringing their produce to market, couples with children and tame dogs, peoples from every clime — Negroes from below the Sahara, yellow-skinned Asians, redheads from distant Britain.
It is a New York street in the summer.
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