On An Evening in the Latter Part Of May A Middle-Aged man Was Walking
Homeward From Shaston To The Village Of Marlott, In the Adjoining
Vale Of Blakemore, Or Blackmoor. The Pair Of Legs That Carried him
Were Rickety, And There Was A Bias In his Gait Which Inclined him
Somewhat To The Left Of A Straight Line. He Occasionally Gave A
Smart Nod, As If In confirmation Of Some Opinion, Though He Was Not
Thinking of Anything in particular.