This immense city, this immense blackness, had no interiors for me.

There were house fronts, staring windows, closed doors, but nothing within; no rooms, no hollow places.

The houses meant nothing to me, nothing more than the solid earth.

Lea remained the only one the thought of whom was not like the reconsideration of an ancient, a musty pair of gloves.
He lived just anywhere.

Being a publisher's reader, he had to report upon the probable commercial value of the manuscripts that unknown authors sent to his employer, and I suppose he had a settled plan of life, of the sort that brought him within the radius of a given spot at apparently irregular, but probably ordered, intervals.