At the House in Great Portland Street

           ForamomentKempsatinsilence,staringatthebackoftheheadlessfigureatthewindow. Thenhestarted,struckbyathought,rose,tooktheInvisibleMan'sarm,andturnedhimawayfromtheoutlook. 

           "Youaretired,"hesaid,"andwhileIsit,youwalkabout.Havemychair." 

           HeplacedhimselfbetweenGriffinandthenearestwindow. 

           ForaspaceGriffinsatsilent,andthenheresumedabruptly: 

           "IhadlefttheChesilstowecottagealready,"hesaid,"whenthathappened.ItwaslastDecember. IhadtakenaroominLondon,alargeunfurnishedroominabigill-managedlodging-houseinaslumnearGreatPortlandStreet. TheroomwassoonfulloftheappliancesIhadboughtwithhismoney;theworkwasgoingonsteadily,successfully,drawingnearanend. Iwaslikeamanemergingfromathicket,andsuddenlycomingonsomeunmeaningtragedy. Iwenttoburyhim. Mymindwasstillonthisresearch,andIdidnotliftafingertosavehischaracter. Irememberthefuneral,thecheaphearse,thescantceremony,thewindyfrost-bittenhillside,andtheoldcollegefriendofhiswhoreadtheserviceoverhim—ashabby,black,bentoldmanwithasnivellingcold. 

           "Irememberwalkingbacktotheemptyhouse,throughtheplacethathadoncebeenavillageandwasnowpatchedandtinkeredbythejerrybuildersintotheuglylikenessofatown. Everywaytheroadsranoutatlastintothedesecratedfieldsandendedinrubbleheapsandrankwetweeds.