Spadina Streetcar, checking and rechecking.

Caucasian male, late 60s, with white beard growing in, wearing green down parka, Covenant House hat, straining over his bifocals.

The Secret Agent: A Simple Tale, Joseph Conrad (Dover Publications)

Page 153:

Behind the Assistant Commissioner the vans and horses, merged into one mass, seemed something alive -- a square-backed black monster, blocking half the street, with sudden iron-shod stampings, fierce jingles, and heavy, blowing sighs. The harshly festive, ill-omened glare of a large and prosperous public-house faced the other end of Brett Street across a wide road.

He puts the book down at each stop. He knows he's close. He'd rather walk. But with the weather turning he doesn't want to look ruffled when he arrives. His hair is clean but thinning. And a quick wash over the sink with a bar of perfumed soap won't make him salon-ready. He shouldn't care. He doesn't care. But she does. And now she wants to meet in this part of town, where the average girl could fit in his pocket while he struggles to put together one meal a day. (Though he makes it count.)