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I was sitting alone in the cafe and had just reached for the sugar preparatory to
putting it into my coffee. Outside, the weather was hideous. Snow and sleet came
swirling down, and the wind howled frightfully. Every time the outer door
opened, a draft of unwelcome air penetrated the uttermost corners of the room.
Still I was comfortable.
The snow and sleet and wind conveyed nothing to me except an abstract
thanksgiving that I was where it could not affect me. While I dreamed and sipped
my coffee, the door opened and closed, and admitted – Sturtevant.
Sturtevant was an undeniable failure, but, withal, an artist of more than ordinary
talent. He had, however, fallen into the rut traveled by ne'er-do-wells and
was out at the elbows as well as insolvent.

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