He reached hastily into his pocket. The bum had stopped him and

asked for a dime, then had gone on talking, as if to kill that moment

and postpone the problem of the next. Pleas for dimes were so

frequent in the streets these days that it was not necessary to listen to

explanations, and he had no desire to hear the details of this bum's

particular despair.

"Go get your cup of coffee," he said, handing the dime to the

shadow that had no face.

"Thank you, sir," said the voice, without interest, and the face

leaned forward for a moment. The face was wind-browned, cut by

lines of weariness and cynical resignation; the eyes were intelligent.

Eddie Willers walked on, wondering why he always felt it at this

time of day, this sense of dread without reason. No, he thought, not

dread, there's nothing to fear: just an immense, diffused

apprehension, with no source or object. He had become accustomed

to the feeling, but he could find no explanation for it; yet the bum

had spoken as if he knew that Eddie felt it, as if he thought that one

should feel it, and more: as if he knew the reason.

Eddie Willers pulled his shoulders straight, in conscientious selfdiscipline.

He had to stop this, he thought; he was beginning to

imagine things. Had he always felt it? He was thirty-two years old.

He tried to think back. No, he hadn't; but he could not remember

when it had started