The streets run parallel in Troppendoirs. The men of one refuse to visit those of another, and over time they have drifted apart, each becoming more distinct. The visitor finds himself on a street with only buttons, another with only butchers. There is a street with small worshipping houses running parallel to another and studded with cathedrals. One street is merely a wall, the peepholes through which guests look onto strangers’ courtyards and garden parties. There is a street with covered sidewalks and chandeliers.
To name the streets of Troppendoirs is to list the habits and hobbies of men. But there are streets of strangers too, and some say this kind is becoming the common kind. These men and women are all the same, of the same trade and likeness and dreams, but they do not converse at all, and each is to each other a stranger still.