The broad drive of a public park stood completely deserted, inviting me to enter.
The road lay thick with fallen leaves, into which I dug voluptuously with my feet.
It smelt damp and bitter; in the distance the trees stood up tall and shadowy, ghostlike in the fog.
At the end of the drive I stood still and undecided, staring into the black foliage,
scenting eagerly the damp odor of decomposition and death, which seemed to be in harmony with my own mood.
Oh, how insipid life tasted! A man, with the collar of his raincoat blowing about him, came out of a side path.
I was just going on when he called to me. “Hello, Sinclair!”
It happened to be Alphonse Beck, the senior boy of the house.
I was always glad to see him and had nothing against him,
except that he always treated me as he did all the younger boys, in an ironical and grandfatherly manner.
He passed for being as strong as a bear, was said to have great influence on the house master, and was the hero of many school stories.
“What are you doing here?” he asked affably, in the tone the seniors always used when they condescended on occasion to talk to us.
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