Papa was moving restlessly about the house. His loose slippers shuffled
on the stone flags of the passages.
Catty stopped gathering up the breakfast cups to listen.
Catty was not what she used to be. Her plump cheeks were sunk and
flattened. Some day she would look like Jenny.
Papa stood in the doorway. He looked round the small dining-room as if he
were still puzzled by its strangeness. Papa was not what he used to be. A
streak of grey hair showed above each ear. Grey patches in his brown
beard. Scarlet smears in the veined sallow of his eyes. His bursting,
violent life had gone. He went stooping and shuffling. The house was too
small for Papa. He turned in it as a dog turns in his kennel, feeling for
a place to stretch himself.