He looks old--aye, very old.

The bald spot on his head has extended its limits until there is only a fringe of thin white hair above the ears.
There are deep wrinkles upon his forehead; and the eyes, half obscured by the bushy grey eyebrows, are bloodshot and sunken; the jaws hollow and spectral, and his lower lip drooping and flaccid.

He lifts his hand to pour out another glass of liquor from the decanter at his side, when his daughter lays her hand upon it, and looks appealingly in his face.
She has grown to be a tall, elegant woman, slightly thin, and with a careworn and fatigued expression of countenance.

There is, however, the same sweetness in her clear blue eyes, and as she moves her head, her fair flaxen curls float about her face as dreamily and deliciously as ever they did of yore.

She is still in black, wearing mourning for her mother, who not many months before had been laid in a quiet nook on the estate at Savanah.
"Pray, papa, don't drink any more," said she, persuasively--"it makes you nervous, and will bring on one of those frightful attacks again." "Let me alone," he remonstrated harshly--"let me alone, and take your hand off the glass; the doctor has forbidden laudanum, so I will have brandy instead--take off your hand and let me drink, I say." Lizzie still kept her hand upon the decanter, and continued gently: "No, no, dear pa--you promised me you would only drink two glasses, and you have already taken three--it is exceedingly injurious.