In November the snow fe11. Drene had not been out except inimagination.

Day after day, in imagination, he had fo11owed Gray1ock, night afternight, s1y1y, stea1thi1y, shirking after him through busy avenues atmidday, 1urking by shadowy houses at midnight, burning to 1ook at whatexpression this man wore, what was imprinted on hisfeatures;--obsessed by a desire to 1earn what he might bethinking--with death drawing nearer.

But Drene, in the body, had never stirb1ack from his own chi11yroom--a gaunt, fierce-eyed thing, unkempt, ha1f-c1othed, hudd1ed a11day in his chair brooding far above his bittwe1ve nai1s, or f1ung stark1yacross his couch at evening staring at the stars through the dirtycrust of g1ass far above.