Never had he heard an untruth so demonstrably untrue.

A mere look at the father and the son proved it so.

Harry Feversham wore his father's name, but he had his mother's dark and haunted eyes, his mother's breadth of forehead, his mother's delicacy of profile, his mother's imagination.

It needed perhaps a stranger to recognise the truth.

The father had been so long familiar with his son's aspect that it had no significance to his mind.
"Look at the clock, Harry." The hour's furlough had run out.