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Chapter 13. Patriarchal

           Theparlour-firetickedinthegrate.Therewasonlyonepersonontheparlour-hearth,andtheloudwatchinhispockettickedaudibly.

           Theservant-maidhadtickedthetwowords‘MrClennam’sosoftlythatshehadnotbeenheard;andheconsequentlystood,withinthedoorshehadclosed,unnoticed.Thefigureofamanadvancedinlife,whosesmoothgreyeyebrowsseemedtomovetothetickingasthefire-lightflickeredonthem,satinanarm-chair,withhislistshoesontherug,andhisthumbsslowlyrevolvingoveroneanother.ThiswasoldChristopherCasby—recognisableataglance—asunchangedintwentyyearsandupwardashisownsolidfurniture—aslittletouchedbytheinfluenceofthevaryingseasonsastheoldrose-leavesandoldlavenderinhisporcelainjars.

           Perhapsthereneverwasaman,inthistroublesomeworld,sotroublesomefortheimaginationtopictureasaboy.Andyethehadchangedverylittleinhisprogressthroughlife.Confrontinghim,intheroominwhichhesat,wasaboy’sportrait,whichanybodyseeinghimwouldhaveidentifiedasMasterChristopherCasby,agedten:thoughdisguisedwithahaymakingrake,forwhichhehadhad,atanytime,asmuchtasteoruseasforadiving-bell;andsitting(ononeofhisownlegs)uponabankofviolets,movedtoprecociouscontemplationbythespireofavillagechurch.Therewasthesamesmoothfaceandforehead,thesamecalmblueeye,thesameplacidair.

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