There was something unnatural about this fierce timidity--and the doctor in Mahony caught a quick glimpse of the probable reverse of the picture.
But it was cold, in face of all this rain-soaked clay; cold blue-grey clouds drove across a washed-out sky; and he still felt unwell.
Returning to his living-room where a small American stove was burning, he prepared for a quiet evening.

In a corner by the fire stood an old packing-case.

He lifted the lid and thrust his hand in: it was here he kept his books.

He needed no light to see by; he knew each volume by the feel.

And after fumbling for a little among the tumbled contents, he drew forth a work on natural science and sat down to read.