In the
doorway stood a group of people. The light from a lamp in the hall
struck upon them, throwing them into strong relief. Foremost, holding
a lantern in his hand, was a man of about sixty, with snow-white hair
which fell in confusion over his rugged forehead. He was of middle
height and carried himself with something of a stoop. The eyes were
small and shifting, and the mouth hard. He wore short whiskers which,
together with the eyebrows, were still tinged with yellow. The face was
ruddy and healthy looking, indeed, had it not been for the dirty white
tie and shabby black coat, one would have taken him to be what he was in
heart, a farmer of the harder sort, somewhat weather-beaten and anxious
about the times--a man who would take advantage of every drop in the
rate of wages. In fact he was Beatrice's father, and a clergyman.
By his side, and leaning over him, was Elizabeth, her elder sister.
There was five years between them. She was a poor copy of Beatrice, or,
to be more accurate, Beatrice was a grand development of Elizabeth. They
both had brown hair, but Elizabeth's was straighter and faint-coloured,
not rich and ruddying into gold.
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