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 And when the whips of their itineraries Hurry them north again. I took my time, Since I was paying for it, and leisurely Went where I would—though never again to move Without him at my elbow or behind me. My shadow of him, wherever I found myself Might horribly as well have been the man— Although I should have been afraid of him No more than of a large worm in a salad. I should omit the salad, certainly, And wish the worm elsewhere. And so he was, In fact; yet as I go on to grow older, I question if there's anywhere a fact That isn't the malevolent existence Of one man who is dead, or is not dead, Or what the devil it is that he may be. There must be, I suppose, a fact somewhere,