The single occupant sprawled in a
winged leather chair, his stretched-out legs in the firelight, but his head
and shoulders in shadow. A man entering could not see the face, and Lovel,
whose eyes had been weakened by study, peered a second before he closed the
door behind him.
"I have come to you, Nick, as always when my mind is in tribulation."
The speaker had a harsh voice, like a bellman's which has been ruined by
shouting against crowds. He had got to his feet and seemed an elderly man,
heavy in body, with legs too short for the proportions of his trunk. He
wore a soldier's coat and belt, but no sword. His age might have been
fifty, but his face was so reddened by weather that it was hard to judge.
The thick straight black locks had little silver in them, but the hair that
sprouted from a mole on the chin was grey. His cheeks were full and the
heavy mouth was pursed like that of a man in constant painful meditation.
He looked at first sight a grazier from the shires or some new-made squire
of a moderate estate.
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