There is, however, now no time to repair these dilapidations.

We issue from our lair, and _en route_ meet the long string of servants filing from their distant regions.

How is it that the cook's face is so much, _much_ less red than mine?
Prayers are held in the justicing-room, and thither we are all repairing.

The accustomed scene bursts on my eye.

At one end the long, straight row of the servants, immovably devout, staring at the wall, with their backs to us.
In the middle of the room, facing them, father, kneeling upon a chair with his hands clutched, and his eyes closed, repeating the church prayers, as if he were rather angry with them than otherwise.