Before the fireplace,
where a few coals burned sulkily, was drawn a leathern elbow chair,
and beside it, on the corner of a writing-table, were set an unlit
candle and a pile of manuscripts. At the opposite end of the room a
curtained door led (I guessed) to the chamber that I had first seen
illuminated. All this I took in with the tail of my eye, while staring
straight in front, where, in the middle of a great square of carpet
between me and the windows, was a table with a red cloth upon it.
On this cloth were a couple of wax candles, lit, in silver stands, a
tray, and a decanter three parts full of brandy. And between me and
the table stood a man.
He stood sideways, leaning a little back, as if to keep his shadow off
the threshold, and looked at me over his left shoulder--a bald, grave
man, slightly under the common height, with a long clerical coat of
preposterous fit hanging loosely from his shoulders, a white cravat,
black breeches, and black stockings. His feet were loosely thrust into
carpet-slippers. I judged his age at fifty, or thereabouts; but his
face rested in the shadow, and I could only note a pair of eyes, very
small and alert, twinkling above a large expanse of cheek.
He was lifting a wine-glass from the table at the moment when I
appeared, and it trembled now in his right hand.
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