Excerpt from Eight Short Stories

IT had rained heavily all day, and a cold, damp wind was blowing down the platform. The train was already late and would be later, I was told. I made up my mind to at least an hour's delay, and began to walk up and down to keep myself warm. The platform was crowded with people: with ordinary travellers, with farmers and their wives returning from a market, with the strings of girls with arms linked and the groups of young men who crowd the railway stations in the evening in Ireland, and it was five or ten minutes before I caught sight of the little group which has filled my thoughts ever since.

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