To enter out into that silence that was the city at eight o'clock of a misty
evening in November, to put your feet upon that buckling concrete walk, to step
over grassy seams and make your way, hands in pockets, through the silences, that
was what Mr. Leonard Mead most dearly loved to do. He would stand upon the
corner of an intersection and peer down long moonlit avenues of sidewalk in four
directions, deciding which way to go, but it really made no difference; he was alone
in this world of A.D. 2053, or as good as alone, and with a final decision made, a
path selected, he would stride off, sending patterns of frosty air before him like
the smoke of a cigar
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