Explore "Manhattan Transfer" by John Dos Passos on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
All along the rails there were faces; in the portholes there were faces. Leeward a stale smell came from the tubby steamer that rode at anchor listed a little to one side with the yellow quarantine flag drooping at the foremast.
"I'd give a million dollars," said the old man resting on his oars, "to know what they come for."