He went alone, conscious only of the long flood of sunset, and the black interlacing pattern of bamboos.

The one friendly spirit had deserted, laughing; yet even this last and worst of earthly puzzles did not matter.

It was true, what he had read; this, which they called death, was a lonely thing.
On a broken stone bench, Sturgeon, sober and dejected, with puffy circles under his eyes, sat waiting.

A long parcel, wrapped in green baize, lay across his knees.

He nodded gloomily, without rising.