He lived by himself very quietly, and but for the

fact that our apartments were next door to each other —

which occasioned a good many chance encounters on the stairs —

we should have remained practically unacquainted. For he was not

a sociable man. Indeed, he was unsociable to a degree

I had never before experienced in anybody. He was, in

fact, as he called himself, a real wolf of the

Steppes, a strange, wild, shy — very shy — being from another

world than mine. How deep the loneliness into which his

life had drifted on account of his disposition and destiny!

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Paraphrases from the novel Steppenwolf by Hermann Hesse.

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