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And he himself-he was a man who always wore rather wide-brimmed black hats, and in the wavy hotel mirrors had looked something like a bullfighter, as he paused for that inevitable instant on the landing, walking downstairs to supper. He had gradually put up at better hotels, in the bigger towns, but weren’t they all, eternally, stuffy in summer and drafty in winter? Women? He could only remember little rooms within little rooms, like a nest of Chinese paper boxes, and if he thought of one woman he saw the worn loneliness that the furniture of that room seemed built of. He had given the nurse a really expensive bracelet, just because she was packing up her bag and leaving.īut now-what if in fourteen years on the road he had never been ill before and never had an accident? His record was broken, and he had even begun almost to question it. He did not like illness, he distrusted it, as he distrusted the road without signposts. He had not even been sorry when the pretty trained nurse said good-bye. By paying the hotel doctor his bill he had proved his recovery. There was no use wishing he were back in bed, though. This desolate hill country! And he seemed to be going the wrong way -it was as if he were going back, far back. Once more Bowman wished he could fall into the big feather bed that had been in her room. All afternoon, in the midst of his anger, and for no reason, he had thought of his dead grandmother. He had had very high fever, and dreams, and had become weakened and pale, enough to tell the difference in the mirror, and he could not think clearly. This was his first day back on the road after a long siege of influenza.
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He was feverish, and he was not quite sure of the way. It made him feel all the more angry and helpless. The sun, keeping its strength here even in winter, stayed at the top of the sky, and every time Bowman stuck his head out of the dusty car to stare up the road, it seemed to reach a long arm down and push against the top of his head, right through his hat-like the practical joke of an old drummer, long on the road. It was a long day! The time did not seem to clear the noon hurdle and settle into soft afternoon. Bowman, who for fourteen years had traveled for a shoe company through Mississippi, drove his Ford along a rutted dirt path.