Inside the noisy cafe‚ sits an old man, hunched over a table, a newspaper in front of him, alone. And in the miserable scorn of age he thinks how little he enjoyed the years when he had strength and eloquence and beauty. He knows how much he's aged; he feels it, sees it. Though it seems like yesterday that he was young. So brief a space, so brief a space. He thinks how Caution cozened him, and how he always trusted her - how mad! that fraud who said: "Tomorrow. You have lots of time." And he remembers passions curbed, and how much joy he sacrificed. Now each lost chance derides his foolish prudence. .... But so much thinking and remembering has made the old man dizzy, and he dozes off there in the cafe‚, leaning on the table.
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