Any ordinary acquaintance now entering the professor's rooms (and those acquaintances might be whittled down to quite a _little_ few), would hardly have known him.
For the abstraction that, as a rule, characterizes his features--the way he has of looking at you, as if he doesn't see you, that harasses the simple, and enrages the others--is all gone! Not a trace of it remains.

It has given place to terror, open and unrestrained.
"A girl!" murmurs he in a feeble tone, falling back in his chair.
And then again, in a louder tone of dismay--"A _girl!"_ He pauses again, and now again gives way to the fear that is destroying him--"A _grown_ girl!" After this, he seems too overcome to continue his reflections, so goes back to the fatal letter.

Every now and then a groan escapes him, mingled with mournful remarks, and extracts from the sheet in his hand-- "Poor old Wynter! Gone at last!" staring at the shaking signature at the end of the letter that speaks so plainly of the coming icy clutch that should prevent the poor hand from forming ever again even such sadly erratic characters as these.

"At least," glancing at the half-read letter on the cloth--_"this_ tells me so.

His solicitor's, I suppose.