There, with a look at once reflective and penetrating, with a figure at once slovenly and alert, was a caricature of Charley Steele as I had known him, and of all his characteristics.
There was such a resemblance as an ugly child in a family may have to his handsome brother.

It was Charley Steele with a twist--gone to seed.
Looking at him in blank amazement, I burst out: "Good heavens, so you didn't die, Charley Steele! You became a tailor!" All at once the whole new landscape of my story as it eventually became, spread out before me.

I was justified in waiting all the years.

My discontent with the futile end of the tale as I originally knew it and saw it was justified.

Charley Steele, brilliant, enigmatic and epigrammatic, did not die at the Cote Dorion, but lived in that far valley by Dalgrothe Mountain, and became a tailor! So far as I am concerned he became much more.