But really it is much more than that. His frame was wasted, and slightly bent; his eyes were hollow, his complexion haggard, and his beard, which had remained unshorn during his hasty journey, was perfectly white. Life is a patchwork of impressions, of vanishing personalities. “Diedermayer’s a kiss-ass. There was first the Avenue, which ran in a consciously elegant curve from the railway station into an undeveloped wilderness of agriculture, with big, yellow brick villas on either side, and then there was the pavement, the little clump of shops about the postoffice, and under the railway arch was a congestion of workmen’s dwellings. But let that verse tell my secret. Taber and no one comment upon it. Perhaps the old fool was not as fanciful as they had thought.
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