Aged men do not lay violent hands upon themselves.

It was different for Pawle, a friend of mine, who had shot himself as he descended the club stairs, a ruined man.

Nevertheless, I walked instinctively towards the Cathedral of Notre Dame, and past that building to the little square house--like a roadside railway station--where Paris keeps her nameless dead.
Half guiltily I went in at one door and out by the other.

Two men lay on the slates--the lowest of the low--and even the sanctifying hand of death could not allay the conviction that the world must necessarily be the richer for their removal from it.

I came away and walked towards the river again.