An oyster of the old school whom nobody can open.
Like as he is to look at, so is his apartment in the dusk of the present afternoon.

Rusty, out of date, withdrawing from attention, able to afford it.

Heavy, broad-backed, old-fashioned, mahogany-and-horsehair chairs, not easily lifted; obsolete tables with spindle-legs and dusty baize covers; presentation prints of the holders of great titles in the last generation or the last but one, environ him.

A thick and dingy Turkey-carpet muffles the floor where he sits, attended by two candles in old-fashioned silver candlesticks that give a very insufficient light to his large room.

The titles on the backs of his books have retired into the binding; everything that can have a lock has got one; no key is visible.