Practice Typing

October 17th. All day today the rain poured down, rustling on the ivy and dripping from the eaves. I thought of the convict out upon the bleak, cold, shelterless moor. Poor devil. Whatever his crimes, he has suffered something to atone for them. And then I thought of that other one the face in the cab, the figure against the moon. Was he also out in that deluge the unseen watcher, the man of darkness.