'IT WAS THE LAST TIME I saw Henry Lawson alive. He came, as so often he did, to the bookshop where I was employed. Silhouetted in the doorway against the bright sunlight without, his tall figure showed a strange angularity of high shoulders and awkward bearing. Here was one on whom the city had not set her stamp. Battered felt hat was drawn over his eyes; loose-fitting coat with misshapen pockets; baggy trousers and crinkled toecapless boots. Lawson remained a bushman till the end of his days, though the city attractions had claimed him, and he looked peculiarly out of place in our orderly shop. Though some there were amongst our customers who recognised him, his haggard expression (for at this time Lawson no longer presented the handsome appearance of the well known Lambert portrait), his ill-fitting clothes and his bedraggled moustaches caused many a timid female customer to draw away.' (Introduction)
