There was a sombre regularity and repose, like that of a house in which a corpse lies, upon the morning of the funeral.
Boniface Newt sat in his office haggard and gray.

His face, like his daughter Fanny's, had grown sharp, and almost fierce.

The blinds were closed, and the room was darkened.

His port-folio lay before him upon the desk, open.

The paper was smooth and white, and the newly-mended pens lay carefully by the inkstand.