He fumbled his way through the lighted room, in which sat Adoniram Judd closing shoes and his son Henry knitting.

When the door opened Henry, whose shadow Jerome had seen on the window-pane, looked up with the vacant peering of the blind, but his fingers never ceased twirling the knitting-needles.
"How are you ?" said Jerome.
Adoniram returned his salutation without rising, and bade him take a chair.

Henry spoke not at all, and bent his dim eyes again over his knitting without a smile.

Henry Judd had the lank height of his father, and his blunt elongation of face and features, informed by his mother's spirit.

The result in his expression was an absolute ferocity instead of severity of gloom, a fury of resentment against his fate, instead of that bitter leaning towards it which is the acme of defiance.
Henry Judd bent his heavy, pale brows over the miserable feminine work to which he was forced.