CHAPTER 4It was not the same room that it had been for nine years before. In place of the fine old musty odor of the books there was a taint of sea in the moist air. It was not as though a mere pane had been knocked out of a window; it was as though a whole wall were down, letting the raw San Francisco air come billowing in, blowing its visible breath into every corner. In a strange way, it seemed to Samuel Culver as though waves of the sea were washing over his books, over his aspirations, and leaving only a soggy ruin behind.
He tied the dog to a leg of the bed and sat down on it to put his thoughts in order before he began his day’s work; but every moment he remained there the work became more and more distasteful to him. He decided to take the dog for a walk.
The leash made all the d
