Faster than ship ever sailed, or wind blew, or light flashed, the thought of Lawrence Newt darted, and the merchant, seemingly leaning against his office-window in South Street, was really sitting under palm-trees, or dandling in a palanquin, or chatting in a strange tongue, or gazing in awe upon snowier summits than the villagers of Chamouni have ever seen.
And what was that dark little hand he seemed to himself to press ?--and what were those eyes, soft depths of exquisite darkness, into which through his own eyes his soul seemed to be sinking?
There were clerks busily writing in the outer office.

It was dark in that office when Mr.Newt first occupied the rooms, and Thomas Tray, the book-keeper, who had the lightest place, said that the eyes of Venables, the youngest clerk, were giving out.

Young Venables, a lad of sixteen, supported a mother and sister and infirm father upon his five hundred dollars a year.
"Eyes giving out in my service, Thomas Tray! I am ashamed of myself." And Lawrence Newt hired the adjoining office, knocked down all the walls, and introduced so much daylight that it shone not only into the eyes of young Venables, but into those of his mother and sister and infirm father.
It was scratch, scratch, scratch, all day long in the clerks' office.
Messengers were coming and going.

Samples were brought in.

Draymen came for orders.