Then I was glad that he hadn't heard my satirical
description of "donation-parties" at Weston, nor the account I gave of
our two boys, our salary of five hundred dollars, and the various
comical shifts we had to make to live comfortably on that sum and
support aged parents and graceless relations. Little touches told Mr.
Lewis the whole story. I knew very well that Mr. Remington would be
entirely abroad about such a social existence as ours in Weston, travel
he ever so long or widely.
Mr. Lewis had black eyes and hair, and bent like an habitual student. He
had a scar on his right eyebrow, which he had got by a fall, and by
which he had saved the life of Mr. Remington, who was a connection of
his wife's. This he told us, afterwards, and I amused myself with
drawing parallels between his face and his mind. One side was gentle,
sweet-humored, sentimental, with a touch of melancholy. The other,
disfigured with the scar, seemed to have been turned harsh, suspicious,
proud, reserved, and unrelenting.
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