It was 1582. In one angle of the room stood a disused fire-place, with a rusty grate and broken chimney-piece; in the other there was a sort of box, contrived between the wall and the boards, that looked like an apology for a cupboard. And, by way of checking his housekeeper's familiarity, he pointed significantly to the table. And, in spite of the boy's resistance, he plunged his hands into his pockets, and drew forth the miniature. You forget all the mass of training and tradition and instinct that go to make him a tolerable master. My father died a year ago, by the way. “Oh my God, what if she’s dead?” More giggling.
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