"I want to see Mr. John Wilmot Liddell."
"Then you see him! Who are you?"
"Katherine Liddell, your niece."
"My niece!" with inexpressible contempt and disbelief, "Well, niece or
not, you may serve a turn. Can you read?"
"Yes, of course."
"Come, then--come in." He turned and walked with some difficulty to the
door of the front parlor. Half bewildered, Katherine followed
mechanically, and the small servant shut the front door, putting up the
chain with a good deal of noise.
The room to which Katherine was so unceremoniously introduced was of
good size, covered with a carpet of which no pattern and very little
color were left. The furniture was old-fashioned and solid; a
dining-table covered with faded green baize was in the middle, and a
writing-table with several drawers was placed near the fireplace, beside
which stood a high-backed leather arm-chair, old, worn, dirty. A
wretched fire was dying out in the grate, almost choked by the red ashes
of the very cheapest coal.
An odor of dust long undisturbed pervaded the atmosphere, and the dull
damp weather without added to the extreme gloom. Indeed the door of this
apartment might well have borne Dante's inscription over the entrance to
a warmer place.
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