It was midnight in Paris and we were rolling toward Avenue Bosguet. As we came to the Pont Alexandra III, the taxi slowed down, for the traffic light was red against us, and then, without stopping, we sailed through the red in a sudden burst of speed. The same performance was repeated at the Alma Bridge. As I paid the driver, I asked him why he had driven through two red lights. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, breaking the law and endangering your life that way." I protested. He looked at me, astonished, "Ashamed of myself? I am a law abiding  citizen and have no desire to get killed either." He cut me off before I could protest. "No, just listen to me before you complain. What did I do? Went through a red light. Well, did you ever stop to consider what a red light is? What it means?" "Certainly,"I replied. "It's a stop signal and means the traffic is rolling in the opposite direction." "Half-right,"said the driver, "But incomplete. It's only an automatic  stop signal. And it does not mean that there is cross traffic. Did you see any cross traffic during our trip? Of course not. I slowed down at the light, looked carefully to the right and to the left. Not another car on the street at this hour. Well, then! What would you have me do? Should I stop like a stupid animal because an automatic, brainless machine turns red every forty seconds? No, sir,"he shouted, "I am a man, not a machine. I have eyes and a brain and judgment, given me by God. Ashamed of myself, you say? I would only be ashamed of myself if I let those blinking lamps do my thinking for me. Good night,sir." At the Alma Bridge,  _  .
the writer stopped the taxi and aid the driver the taxi went through a red light again there was a performance the writer had already watched the writer began to criticize the driver