These conditions never ceased to depress Jack. Fresh from a life
out of doors, accustomed to an old-fashioned dining-room--the
living room, really, of the family who had cared for him since his
father's death, where not only the sun made free with the open
doors and windows, but the dogs and neighbors as well--the sober
formality of this early meal--all of his uncle's meals, for that
matter--sent shivers down his back that chilled him to the bone.
He had looked about him the first morning of his arrival, had
noted the heavy carved sideboard laden with the garish silver; had
examined the pictures lining the walls, separated from the dark
background of leather by heavy gold frames; had touched with his
fingers the dial of the solemn bronze clock, flanked by its
equally solemn candelabra; had peered between the steel andirons,
bright as carving knives, and into the freshly varnished, spacious
chimney up which no dancing blaze had ever whirled in madcap glee
since the mason's trowel had left it and never would to the end of
time,--not as long as the steam heat held out; had watched the
crane-like step of Parkins as he moved about the room--cold,
immaculate, impassive; had listened to his "Yes, sir--thank you,
sir, very good, sir," until he wanted to take him by the throat
and shake something spontaneous and human out of him, and as each
cheerless feature passed in review his spirits had sunk lower and
lower.
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