It was the room of a man with
few hobbies and no pleasures--who existed because he was
alive, and worked because he must.
Three nights after the great fog John Loder sat by his desk in
the light of the green-shaded lamp. The remains of a very
frugal supper stood on the centre-table, and in the grate a
small and economical-looking fire was burning.
Having written for close on two hours, he pushed back his
chair and stretched his cramped fingers; then he yawned, rose,
and slowly walked across the room. Reaching the mantel-piece,
he took a pipe from the pipe-rack and some tobacco from the
jar that stood behind the books. His face looked tired and a
little worn, as is common with men who have worked long at an
uncongenial task. Shredding the tobacco between his hands, he
slowly filled the pipe, then lighted it from the fire with a
spill of twisted paper.
Almost at the moment that he applied the light the sound of
steps mounting the uncarpeted stairs outside caught his
attention, and he raised his head to listen.
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