If ever a back steeled itself to carry out a distasteful task according to instructions, this was that back.

Mr.Pete Johnson sighed in sympathy.
The minutes droned by.

A clock, of hitherto unassuming habit, became clamorous; it echoed along the dreaming corridors.

Mr.Johnson sighed again.
The stone sill upon which he leaned reflected from its polished surface a face carved to patience; but if the patient face had noted its own reflection it might have remarked--and adjusted--eyebrows not so patient, flattened to a level; and a slight quiver in the tip of a predatory nose.
The pen squeaked across glazed paper.

Mr.Johnson took from his pocket a long, thin cigar and a box of safety matches.
The match crackled, startling in the silence; the clerical person turned in his chair and directed at the prospective customer a stare so baleful that the cigar was forgotten.