The crowd, dissolving backward
The whole upper register, behind the bench
Behind the front three, rows of anonymous passengers, men in tall hats and caps, women in bonnets, recede into the dim car, and the farther back they go the sketchier and more ghostly the faces become (the unfinished paint exaggerates it). Nobody back there is an individual; they are the crowd, the mass of the modern city packed into a moving box.