And it was this which attracted my attention at first.
But he was not easy to classify, and before the end of the week I gave him up with the vague definition, "an imposing old ruffian." One rainy afternoon, oppressed by infinite boredom, I went into the smoking-room.

He was sitting there in absolute immobility, which was really fakir-like and impressive.

I began to wonder what could be the associations of that sort of man, his "milieu," his private connections, his views, his morality, his friends, and even his wife--when to my surprise he opened a conversation in a deep, muttering voice.
I must say that since he had learned from somebody that I was a writer of stories he had been acknowledging my existence by means of some vague growls in the morning.
He was essentially a taciturn man.

There was an effect of rudeness in his fragmentary sentences.

It was some time before I discovered that what he would be at was the process by which stories--stories for periodicals--were produced.
What could one say to a fellow like that?
But I was bored to death; the weather continued impossible; and I resolved to be amiable.
"And so you make these tales up on your own.