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But there are people in the villages of southern France who still recall that ungainly, shambling figure. He had grown a beard; it crinkled thickly, hiding his mouth and chin. He laughed a great deal. He was not altogether clean. And he slept wherever he could find a bed in farmhouses, cheap hotels, haylofts, stables, open fields. Waram's few hundred pounds were gone.
"Dead?" Grimshaw felt once more the on-rushing flood of darkness. His thoughts flashed back over the years. The "wall." His suffering. The dog. The song in the field. The Negro. The door that opened. The stars. His own flesh, fading into spirit, into shadows.... "Dead?" he demanded again. Waram's eyes wavered. He laughed unsteadily and looked behind him. "Strange," he said.
I saw it myself, although at that time I had not heard Waram's story. The French critics saw it. "This Pilleux is as picturesque as the English poet, Grimshaw. The style is identical." Waram saw it. He read everything that Pilleux wrote with eagerness, with terror. Finally, driven by curiosity, he went to Paris, got Pilleux's address from the editor of Gil Blas, and started for Africa.
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