Зима тревоги нашей

           IwalkedbehindthecounterandkickedtheleatherKnightTemplarhatboxclosed.AndIleanedmyelbowsonthecounter.

           Veryodd.FiveminutesearlierIsawmyselfthroughtheeyesofotherpeople.Ihadto.Whattheysawwasimportant.Andashecameacrossthepavement,thismanhadbeenahuge,dark,hopelessfate,anenemy,anogre.Butwithmyprojecttuckedawayandgoneasapartofme,Isawhimnowasanobjectapart—nolongerlinkedwithmeforgoodorbad.Hewas,Ithink,aboutmyage,butshapedinaschool,amanner,perhapsacult—aleanfaceandhaircarefullytrimmedshortandstandingstraightup,whiteshirtofacoarsewovenlinenwiththecollarbuttoneddownandatiechosenbyhiswife,andwithoutdoubtpattedandstraightenedbyherasheleftthehouse.Hissuitagraydarknessandhisnailshomecaredforbutwellcaredfor,awidegoldweddingringonhislefthand,atinybarinhisbuttonhole,asuggestionofthedecorationhewouldnotwear.Hismouthanddarkblueeyeswereschooledtofirmness,whichmadeitallthemorestrangethattheywerenotfirmnow.Insomewayaholehadbeenopenedinhim.Hewasnotthesamemanwhosequestionshadbeenshort,squaredbarsofsteelspacedperfectly,onebelowitsfellow.

           "Youwereherebefore,"Isaid."Whatisyourbusiness?"

           "DepartmentofJustice."

           "Yourbusinessisjustice?"

           Hesmiled."Yes,atleastthat’swhatIhope.ButI’mnotonofficialbusiness—notevensurethedepartmentwouldapprove.Butit’smydayoff."