It is as big as the Coliseum,
shaped like an old-fashioned hoop-skirt with a petticoat of glass, and
connects with one of the most beautiful bridges in the world. It has
two immense waiting-rooms, with historical frescos on the walls and two
huge fireplaces supported on nudities shivering with the cold, for no
stick of wood ever blazes on the well-swept hearths. It has also a
gorgeous restaurant, with panelled ceiling, across which skip bunches of
butterfly Cupids in shameless costumes, and an inviting cafe with
never-dying palms in the windows, a portrait of the Kaiser over the
counter holding the coffee-urn, and a portrait of the Kaiserin over the
counter holding the little sticky cakes, the baby bottles of champagne,
and the long lady-finger sandwiches with bits of red ham hanging from
their open ends like poodle-dogs' tongues.
Outside these ponderous rooms, under the arching glass of the station
itself, is a broad platform protected from rushing trains and yard
engines by a wrought-iron fence, twisted into most enchanting scrolls
and pierced down its whole length by sliding wickets, before which stand
be-capped and be-buttoned officials of the road.
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