‘She sees the city growing, she sees it growing urged on by its own lively expectations, she sees tall chimneys sprouting like thorns in a field of miracles, clusters of chimneys that hide the sky with their smoke … She sees the towers grow sharp and streets tear themselves up – open wounds, turgid veins through which flows the dark blood of the city. She sees high buildings put their heads in the clouds … The city, the city! If it would only grow all at once, if it would stop swelling like ripe fruit, if its new houses would only catch up with Barbara’s old one … Let the houses just arrive into the garden and devour it in stone, ground up by the great cement jaws of the city until nothing is left but a few, stunted rosebushes.’