The hair would lose its brightness, the mouth would gape or droop, would be foolish or gross, as the mouths of old men are.

There would be the wrinkled throat, the cold, blue-veined hands, the twisted body, that he remembered in the grandfather who had been so stern to him in his boyhood.

The picture had to be concealed.

There was no help for it.
"Bring it in, Mr.Hubbard, please," he said, wearily, turning round.
"I am sorry I kept you so long.

I was thinking of something else." "Always glad to have a rest, Mr.Gray," answered the frame-maker, who was still gasping for breath.