Cain might have looked as lonely and avoided.

With an old sheepskin knapsack at his back, and a rough, unbarked stick cut out of some wood in his hand; miry, footsore, his shoes and gaiters trodden out, his hair and beard untrimmed; the cloak he carried over his shoulder, and the clothes he wore, sodden with wet; limping along in pain and difficulty; he looked as if the clouds were hurrying from him, as if the wail of the wind and the shuddering of the grass were directed against him, as if the low mysterious plashing of the water murmured at him, as if the fitful autumn night were disturbed by him.
He glanced here, and he glanced there, sullenly but shrinkingly; and sometimes stopped and turned about, and looked all round him.

Then he limped on again, toiling and muttering.
'To the devil with this plain that has no end! To the devil with these stones that cut like knives! To the devil with this dismal darkness, wrapping itself about one with a chill! I hate you!' And he would have visited his hatred upon it all with the scowl he threw about him, if he could.

He trudged a little further; and looking into the distance before him, stopped again.

'I, hungry, thirsty, weary.