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 watching the passers-by, but I recognise no one. Often I find myself glaring rudely at ladies I know, without bowing to them. I am like a dog who has lost his master. Now, thinking he is on the right track, he hurries on gladly, and now he is fussing helplessly about with nose to the ground.

Whenever in the distance I see a tall, slender girl with a boa twined round her neck, I am off like a shot. I rush along, pushing people right and left, until breathless I reach her and discover my mistake. Once I ran after a cab all the way to a remote suburb, only to see a withered old maid step out. It was a blue waterproof which had deceived me.

Every day, when tired and disappointed I return home, I resolve afresh that this game must come to an end.

But the following morning the restlessness is upon me again, and I hasten out once more as though afraid to be too late.

HY am I seeking Marie? What do I want with her?

Take her back? Commence it all over again?

No, certainly not. That story is told, and there is no sequel.

I only want to see her, to know that she is alive. As soon as I have exchanged two words with her, my wish will be satisfied and my soul will be at peace. But this death-like silence that has grown up between us disturbs and worries me.