It seemed to me a bold thing even to take notice that the passage looked comfortable, as I went on my way, trembling, to Mr.Creakle's presence: which so abashed me, when I was ushered into it, that I hardly saw Mrs.Creakle or Miss Creakle (who were both there, in the parlour), or anything but Mr.Creakle, a stout gentleman with a bunch of watch-chain and seals, in an arm-chair, with a tumbler and bottle beside him.
'So!' said Mr.Creakle.

'This is the young gentleman whose teeth are to be filed! Turn him round.' The wooden-legged man turned me about so as to exhibit the placard; and having afforded time for a full survey of it, turned me about again, with my face to Mr.Creakle, and posted himself at Mr.Creakle's side.
Mr.Creakle's face was fiery, and his eyes were small, and deep in his head; he had thick veins in his forehead, a little nose, and a large chin.

He was bald on the top of his head; and had some thin wet-looking hair that was just turning grey, brushed across each temple, so that the two sides interlaced on his forehead.

But the circumstance about him which impressed me most, was, that he had no voice, but spoke in a whisper.

The exertion this cost him, or the consciousness of talking in that feeble way, made his angry face so much more angry, and his thick veins so much thicker, when he spoke, that I am not surprised, on looking back, at this peculiarity striking me as his chief one.