For the moment he looked old, worn, finished.
"They're crowdin' me," the boy whispered.

"They're always crowdin' me." His voice was querulous, uncomprehending, like that of a child complaining of something beyond his experience.

"I can't remember when they haven't been crowdin' me.

Movin' me on, you understand?
Always movin' me on.

Moved me out of India, then Cairo, then they closed Paris, and now they've shut me out of London.