He had a glimpse of the ancient clock-mender himself, however, huddled over a table upon which sputtered a candle.

It touched up his face with grotesque lights.

Here was age, mused the man outside the window; nothing less than fourscore years rested upon those rounded shoulders.

The face was corrugated with wrinkles, like a frosted road; eyes heavily spectacled, a ragged thatch of hair on the head, a ragged beard on the chin.

Aware of a shadow between him and the fading daylight, the clock-mender looked up from his work.