And yet he was somewhere
indomitable and separate, like a quick, vital rat. He had a queer,
subterranean beauty, repulsive too.
'How strange they are!' said Ursula.
'Children of men,' he said. 'They remind me of Jesus: "The meek shall
inherit the earth."'
'But they aren't the meek,' said Ursula.
'Yes, I don't know why, but they are,' he replied.
They waited for the tramcar. Ursula sat on top and looked out on the
town. The dusk was just dimming the hollows of crowded houses.
'And are they going to inherit the earth?' she said.
'Yes--they.'
'Then what are we going to do?' she asked. 'We're not like them--are
we? We're not the meek?'
'No. We've got to live in the chinks they leave us.'
'How horrible!' cried Ursula. 'I don't want to live in chinks.'
'Don't worry,' he said. 'They are the children of men, they like
market-places and street-corners best. That leaves plenty of chinks.'
'All the world,' she said.
'Ah no--but some room.'
The tramcar mounted slowly up the hill, where the ugly winter-grey
masses of houses looked like a vision of hell that is cold and angular.
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