. . .
CHAPTER XXXIII
It was nearly two o'clock. To step out of doors was like passing into a
furnace. Streets were deserted. The houses showed glaring white against
the cobalt of the firmament; their inhabitants lay asleep within,
behind closed shutters. Heat and silence brooded over the land.
Climbing slowly aloft by a lava-paved lane they reached the
bibliographer's residence and paused awhile near its entrance. Mr.
Heard tried to picture the scholar's life in this two-roomed cottage;
he regretted having had no chance of visiting that amiable person in
his own abode. (Mr. Eames was chary of issuing invitations.) A life of
monastic severity. There was a small outhouse attached to one side of
the wall; it was the kitchen, Denis explained; Eames' only servant
being a boy whom he borrowed for an occasional morning's work from a
neighbouring farm which supplied him with dairy produce.
"It isn't often used, that kitchen," said Denis. "He lives mostly on
bread and milk.
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