She was aware of him—a silk-hatted, shiny-black figure on the opposite side of the Avenue; and then, abruptly and startlingly, he crossed the road and saluted and spoke to her. Recurrently she heard: "I don't know; I really don't know. He was absolutely unable to focus his ideas. She was a schizophrenic, got locked up later in some sort of state mental ward. One might have said that these trees grieved for their native soil; and, grieving, refused to bear. “What is a ballot-box like, exactly?” she asked, as though it was very important to her.
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