Then the exasperating remembrance, with its cruel irony, returned to him.

Since Laveuve was dead, of what use was it for him to kill time and perambulate the pavements pending the arrival of six o'clock?
The idea that he had a home, and that the most simple course would be to return to it, did not even occur to him.

He felt as if there were something of importance left for him to do, though he could not possibly tell what it might be.

It seemed to him to be everywhere and yet very far away, to be so vague and so difficult of accomplishment that he would certainly never be in time or have sufficient power to do it.

However, with heavy feet and tumultuous brain he descended the steps and, yielding to some obstinate impulse, began to walk through the flower-market, a late winter market where the first azaleas were opening with a little shiver.