Malloy had never been an overly proud or vain man before the Riders had come. After all, he'd had one of the most menial jobs on Earth; he had been a magazine editor. But now he felt squashed under the thumb of humiliation.
The monstrous indignity of it all!
To be thrown out of an asylum!
After a time, Malloy felt a coolness, a wetness on his head.
He dreamed a little dream to himself that he knew was a dream: they were coming to wrap him in warm sheets again.
But it was only a dream. This wetness wasn't warm—it was chilly. He finally identified it from his memories. This was rain.
He stirred himself and gathered up the brown bundle that he knew must contain his suit, papers and a little money.
Malloy trudged down the road toward the town that lay below the sanitarium, his collar turned up.
He found he didn't mind the rain so much. It tended to settle the dust, and the walk would be a long one.