heard:

. . . the Rose of Sharon,
. . . a bottle of Cyprus wine!

until that, too, was lost in the distance.

When he reached his room, he did not light the lamp, but crossed to
the window and stood looking out into the darkness. The day's
impressions, motley as the changes of a kaleidoscope, seethed in his
brain, clamoured to be recalled and set in order; but he kept them
back; he could not face the task. He felt averse to any mental effort,
in need of a repose as absolute as the very essence of silence itself.
The sky was overcast; a wayward breeze blew coolly in upon him and
refreshed him; a few single raindrops fell. In the air a gentle
melancholy was abroad, and, as he stood there, wax for any
passing mood, it descended on him and enveloped him. He gave himself
up to it, unresistingly, allowed himself to toy with it, to sink
beneath it. Just, however, as he was sinking, sinking, he was roused,
suddenly, as from sleep, by the vivid presentiment that something was
about to happen to him: it seemed as if an important event were
looming in the near distance, ready to burst in upon his life, and not
only instantly, but with a monstrous crash of sound. His pulses beat
more quickly, his nerves stretched, like bows. But it was very still;
everything around him slept, and the streets were deserted.

A keen sense of desolation came over him; never, in his life, had he
felt so utterly alone. In all this great city that spread, ocean-like,
around him, not a heart was the lighter for his being there. Oh, to
have some one beside him!--some one who would talk soothingly to him,