He carried a cane and a silk hat with a mourning-band in one gray-gloved hand; his frock-coat and trousers were admirable; his handsome face, his black mustache, his prominent brow conveyed an eager solicitude. “A glass slipped from the table,” he explained. He remained talking with her however. “You need not be alarmed,” he said. "The end is the most beautiful in English literature. He sat with folded arms and knitted brows, thinking intently. Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon. You were accused of having been seen with the latter.
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