A few minutes more, and he lay sound
asleep.
Waking at eight o'clock--he knew the time by a bell that clanged in the
neighbourhood--Mr. Tymperley clad himself with nervous haste. On opening
his door, he found lying outside a tray, with the materials of a breakfast
reduced to its lowest terms: half a pint of milk, bread, butter. At nine
o'clock he went downstairs, tapped civilly at the door of the front
parlour, and by an untuned voice was bidden enter. The room was occupied by
an oldish man and a girl, addressing themselves to the day's work of plain
bookbinding.
'Good morning to you, sir,' said Mr. Tymperley, bending his head. 'Good
morning, Miss Suggs. Bright! Sunny! How it cheers one!'
He stood rubbing his hands, as one might on a morning of sharp frost. The
bookbinder, with a dry nod for greeting, forthwith set Mr. Tymperley a
task, to which that gentleman zealously applied himself. He was learning
the elementary processes of the art. He worked with patience, and some show
of natural aptitude, all through the working hours of the day.
To this pass had things come with Mr. Tymperley, a gentleman of Berkshire,
once living in comfort and modest dignity on the fruit of sound
investments.
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