"I believe I am old," said the Doctor, pushing his straight-backed wooden chair from the table, and turning from his books to look out of his small window.

"Yes, I am certainly very old," he said again, rapping absently on the arm of the chair with the pen he held.

But the fingers that held the instrument were neither thin nor withered, and there was no trembling in the careless motion of the hand.

The flaxen hair, long and tangled, was thick on the massive head, and the broad shoulders were flat and square across.

Whatever Dr.Claudius might say of himself, he certainly did not look old.
And yet he said to himself that he was, and he probably knew.