Bereft of his presence the place suddenly grew ghostly.

It was as if the sun had died in the sky and left us in that nether world where dead, buried pasts live in a grey, shadowless light.

Jenkins' palette glowed from above a medley of stained rags on his open colour table.

The rush-bottom of his chair resembled a wind-torn thatch.
"One can draw morals from a life like that," I said suddenly.

I was thinking rather of Jenkins than of the man I was talking to.
"Why, yes," he said, absently, "I suppose there are men who haven't the knack of getting on." "It's more than a knack," I said, with unnecessary bitterness.