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END
謝謝觀看
When his knock at the bright brass knocker of obsolete shape
brought a woman-servant to the door, those faded scents in truth
saluted him like wintry breath that had a faint remembrance in it
of the bygone spring. He stepped into the sober, silent, air-tight
house—one might have fancied it to have been stifled by Mutes in
the Eastern manner—and the door, closing again, seemed to shut
out sound and motion. The furniture was formal, grave, and
quaker-like, but well-kept; and had as prepossessing an aspect as
anything, from a human creature to a wooden stool, that is meant
for much use and is preserved for little, can ever wear. There was
a grave clock, ticking somewhere up the staircase; and there was a
songless bird in the same direction, pecking at his cage, as if he
were ticking too. The parlour-fire ticked in the grate. There was
only one person on the parlour-hearth, and the loud watch in his
pocket ticked audibly.
The servant-maid had ticked the two words 『Mr Clennam』 so
softly that she had not been heard; and he consequently stood,
within the door she had closed, unnoticed. The figure of a man
advanced in life, whose smooth grey eyebrows seemed to move to
the ticking as the fire-light flickered on them, sat in an arm-chair,
with his list shoes on the rug, and his thumbs slowly revolving
over one another. This was old Christopher Casby—recognisable
at a glance—as unchanged in twenty years and upward as his own
solid furniture—as little touched by the influence of the varying
seasons as the old rose-leaves and old lavender in his porcelain
jars.
Perhaps there never was a man, in this troublesome world, so
troublesome for the imagination to picture as a boy. And yet he
had changed very little in his progress through life. Confronting
him, in the room in which he sat, was a boy’s portrait, which
anybody seeing him would have identified as Master Christopher
Casby, aged ten: though disguised with a haymaking rake, for
which he had had, at any time, as much taste or use as for a
diving-bell; and sitting (on one of his own legs) upon a bank of
violets, moved to precocious contemplation by the spire of a village
church. There was the same smooth face and forehead, the same
calm blue eye, the same placid air. The shining bald head, which
looked so very large because it shone so much; and the long grey
hair at its sides and back, like floss silk or spun glass, which looked
so very benevolent because it was never cut; were not, of course,
to be seen in the boy as in the old man. Nevertheless, in the
Seraphic creature with the haymaking rake, were clearly to be
discerned the rudiments of the Patriarch with the list shoes.