In The Troubled twilight Of A March Evening ten Years Ago, An Old
Man, Whose Equipment And Bearing suggested that He Was Fresh From
Travel, Walked slowly Across Clerkenwell Green, And By The Graveyard
Of St. James'S Church Stood For A Moment Looking about Him. His Age
Could Not Be Far From Seventy, But, Despite The Stoop Of His
Shoulders, He Gave Little Sign Of Failing under The Burden Of Years;
His Sober Step Indicated gravity Of Character Rather Than Bodily
Feebleness, And His Grasp Of A Stout Stick Was Not Such As Bespeaks
Need of Support.
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