The man wore no overcoat; a knitted muffler was wrapped tightly about his neck; and she saw that the hands fumbling at the gate were red and trembling from cold.
Steadying herself against the fence, she drew her purse from her muff, and she had already taken out a piece of silver, when she heard her name called in a voice which sounded vaguely familiar, though it awoke no immediate associations in her mind.
"Gabriella! My God! I was looking for you, Gabriella!" With the money still in her hand, she stooped to look into his face.
"You don't know me.

I'm George," he said in an angry voice as if he were about to burst into tears.

"I'm George, but you don't know me." The storm drove him against her, and he clung weakly to her arm, crying softly in a terrified whimper like a child that is awaking from a horrible nightmare.

Though she did not realize that he was dying, not of disease, but of drink, the thought shot through her mind: "So this is George.

So this is what George has come to--George who took everything that he wanted!" "Where are you going ?" she asked, for the shock had restored him to some poor semblance of sanity.
"I was looking for you.