But the mere recognition of his son’s signature was enough to stoke the fires of his long-held rage. Moving swiftly to the end of the corridor, he pushed open a door at random and entered a large room, which looked to have been a saloon, judging from the faded gilt and crimson wall-paper, a mirror above the fireplace which was surrounded by an ornate gilded frame, now sadly tarnished, and a worn Chippendale sofa with striped upholstery and tasselled cushions. Gravely he placed them in his aunt's hand. And were you to load me with thrice the weight of iron you have ordered you should not prevent my escaping a third time. We, ourselves, are scarcely the same we were twelve years ago.
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