C'est la lutte finale, groupons-nous et demain
L'Internationale sera le genre humain.
"Take a look at the deportees. . . . Take a look at the undesirable aliens," shouted the man with the telescopes and fieldglasses. A girl's voice burst out suddenly, "Arise prisoners of starvation," "Sh. . . . They could pull you for that."
The singing trailed away across the water. At the end of a marbled wake the ferryboat was shrinking into haze. International . . . shall be the human race. The singing died. From up the river came the longdrawn rattling throb of a steamer leaving dock. Gulls wheeled above the dark dingydressed crowd that stood silently looking down the bay.