"Thank you, sir," said the voice, without interest, and the faceleaned forward for a moment. The face was wind-browned, cut bylines of weariness and cynical resignation; the eyes were intelligent.Eddie Willers walked on, wondering why he always felt it at thistime of day, this sense of dread without reason. No, he thought, notdread, there's nothing to fear: just an immense, diffusedapprehension, with no source or object. He had become accustomedto the feeling, but he could find no explanation for it; yet the bumhad spoken as if he knew that Eddie felt it, as if he thought that oneshould feel it, and more: as if he knew the reason.Eddie Willers pulled his shoulders straight, in conscientious selfdiscipline.He had to stop this, he thought; he was beginning toimagine things. Had he always felt it? He was thirty-two years old.He tried to think back. No, he hadn't; but he could not rememberwhen it had started.
