The servant said, "Stay here a moment, sir, and I'll send her to you."
With this he retired into the drawing-room, closing the door softly after
him: once closed it became invisible; it fitted like wax, and left
nothing to be seen but books; not even a knob. It shut to with that
gentle but clean click which a spring bolt, however polished and oiled
and gently closed, will emit. Altogether it was enough to give some
people a turn. But Alfred's nerves were not to be affected by trifles; he
put his hands in his pockets and walked up and down the room, quietly
enough at first, but by-and-bye uneasily. "Confound her for wasting my
time," thought he; "why doesn't she come?
Then, as he had learned to pick up the fragments of time, and hated
dawdling, he went to take a book from the shelves.
He found it was a piece of iron, admirably painted: it chilled his hand
with its unexpected coldness: and all the books on and about the door
were iron and chilly.
"Well," thought he, "this is the first dummy ever took me in. What a fool
the man must be! Why he could have bought books with ideas in them for
the price of these impostors.
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