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His main concession to the deluge surrounding him was the huge, garishly striped golf umbrella which had been provided him by the doorman at the hotel. His gloved right hand held it firmly, chest level, upright against the downpour. His left hand was thrust deep in the pocket of his black greatcoat which, theatrically, nearly reached the water droplets bouncing up from the streaming sidewalk in front of the dark concert hall. A heavy muffler of silver and black was wrapped twice around his throat and lower face, leaving only the intense black eyes and bushy brows visible between the scarf and the wide-brimmed black fedora pulled low against the night's chill. The eyes were virtually motionless, fixed intently as they were on the glass-covered playbill, barely visible in the light from a street lamp farther down the deserted block. A sudden gust of wind drove the rain at an angle, pulling roughly at the umbrella before the man could tighten his grip and readjust the angle for maximum protection. It was admittedly foolish to be out here at this ungodly hour at his age -- after all, there were those damned letters -- even if the weather was good. And under these conditions, it was more than time to return to his rooms. He read the bill once again, his eyes dwelling with an anguish he couldn't seem to shake off, even knowing as he did that his timing was exactly right -- not too soon, he prayed; but assuredly, even if "too soon," that was still preferable to "too late." He had required himself to come each night for the last three nights to reread his last playbill: "Edmund Oberon, Baritone, in his Farewell Concert, October 27th, 8:00 p.m." Tonight there was something added to the pane of glass, a streamer glued to it on an angle, stating that this performance -- his ultimate stage appearance -- was fully sold out. He clutched the upturned collar of his coat even closer around his throat, turned to the north and limped off into the unceasing rain.
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