But he did pity him; he pitied him profoundly.
Babbitt had left the front door open in his emotional departure and Jed followed to close it.

Before doing so he stepped out into the yard.
It was pitch dark now and still.

He could hear the footsteps of his recent visitor pounding up the road, and the splashy grumble of the surf on the bar was unusually audible.

He stood for a moment looking up at the black sky, with the few stars shining between the cloud blotches.

Then he turned and looked at the little house next door.
The windows of the sitting-room were alight and the shades drawn.
At one window he saw Charles Phillips' silhouette; he was reading, apparently.