He has colourless eyes, fixed
earnestly, and a face almost as pale as the clerical bands beneath his
somewhat receding chin. His forehead is high and narrow, his hair
mouse-coloured. His hands are clasped tight before him, the knuckles
standing out sharply. This constriction does not mean that he is
steeling himself to speak. He has no positive intention of speaking.
Very much, nevertheless, is he wishing in the back of his mind that he
could say something--something whereat the great Doctor would turn on
him and say, after a pause for thought, `Why yes, Sir. That is most
justly observed' or `Sir, this has never occurred to me. I thank you'-
-thereby fixing the observer for ever high in the esteem of all. And
now in a flash the chance presents itself. `We have,' shouts Johnson,
`no sermons addressed to the passions, that are good for anything.' I
see the curate's frame quiver with sudden impulse, and his mouth fly
open, and--no, I can't bear it, I shut my eyes and ears. But audible,
even so, is something shrill, followed by something thunderous.
Presently I re-open my eyes. The crimson has not yet faded from that
young face yonder, and slowly down either cheek falls a glistening
tear. Shades of Atterbury and Tillotson! Such weakness shames the
Established Church.
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