All was still in the house of Mr. Stevens--so quiet, that the ticking
of the large clock in the hall could be distinctly heard at the top of the
stairway, breaking the solemn stillness of the night with its monotonous
"click, click--click, click!"
In a richly furnished chamber overlooking the street a dim light was
burning; so dimly, in fact, that the emaciated form of Mr. Stevens was
scarcely discernible amidst the pillows and covering of the bed on which he
was lying. Above him a brass head of curious workmanship held in its
clenched teeth the canopy that overshadowed the bed; and as the light
occasionally flickered and brightened, the curiously carved face seemed to
light up with a sort of sardonic grin; and the grating of the
curtain-rings, as the sick man tossed from side to side in his bed, would
have suggested the idea that the odd supporter of the canopy was gnashing
his brazen teeth at him.
On the wall, immediately opposite the light, hung a portrait of Mrs.
Stevens; not the sharp, hard face we once introduced to the reader, but a
smoother, softer countenance--yet a worn and melancholy one in its
expression. It looked as if the waves of grief had beaten upon it for a
long succession of years, until they had tempered down its harsher
peculiarities, giving a subdued appearance to the whole countenance.
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