It was a vague, funereal, impalpable something which no amount of gymnastic training would enable me to knock over.

It was Sunday.

If ever I have a boy to bring up in the way he should go, I intend to make Sunday a cheerful day to him.

Sunday was not a cheerful day at the Nutter House.
You shall judge for yourself.
It is Sunday morning.

I should premise by saying that the deep gloom which has settled over everything set in like a heavy fog early on Saturday evening.
At seven o'clock my grandfather comes smilelessly downstairs.