His servants were afraid of him. They could not quite comprehend him.
They knew it was vain trying to deceive him, and had quite given up
lying and prevaricating. Neither would he stand much talking. When they
prattled he brought them to the point sternly; and whenever a real
anxiety rested on his mind he became pretty nearly diabolical. On the
whole, however, they had a strange sort of liking for him. They were
proud of his wealth, and of his influence with great people. And though
he would not allow them to rob, disobey, or deceive him, yet he used
them handsomely, paid like a prince, was a considerate master, and made
them comfortable.
Now Mr. Dangerfield poked up his fire and lighted his candles. Somehow,
the room looked smaller he thought than it had ever seemed before. He
was not nervous--nothing could bring him to that; but his little
altercation with the iron gate, and some uncomfortable thoughts had
excited him. It was an illusion merely--but the walls seemed to have
closed in a foot or two, and the ceiling to have dropped down
proportionably, and he felt himself confined and oppressed.
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