The vast house was quiet; Polk Street outside was very still, except for the occasional whirr and trundle of a passing cable car and the persistent calling of ducks and geese in the deserted market directly opposite.
Marcus was in his shirt sleeves, perspiring and swearing with exertion as he tried to get all his belongings into an absurdly inadequate trunk.
The room was in great confusion.

It looked as though Marcus was about to move.

He stood in front of his trunk, his precious silk hat in its hat-box in his hand.

He was raging at the perverseness of a pair of boots that refused to fit in his trunk, no matter how he arranged them.
"I've tried you SO, and I've tried you SO," he exclaimed fiercely, between his teeth, "and you won't go." He began to swear horribly, grabbing at the boots with his free hand.

"Pretty soon I won't take you at all; I won't, for a fact." He was interrupted by a rush of feet upon the back stairs and a clamorous pounding upon his door.