But the merchant did not write.
He had not written that day.

His white, bony hand rested upon the port-folio, and the long fingers drummed upon it at intervals, while his eyes half-vacantly wandered out into the store and saw the long shrouds drawn over the goods.

Occasionally a slight sigh of weariness escaped him.

But he did not seem to care to distract his mind from its gloomy intentness; for the morning paper lay beside him unopened, although it was afternoon.
In the outer office the book-keeper was still at work.

He looked from book to book, holding the leaves and letting them fall carefully--comparing, computing, writing in the huge volumes, and filing various papers away.