Bryerly. There was something more than the convictions
of their strange religion could account for. There was something that
profoundly agitated my father. It may not be reasonable, but so it is. The
person whose presence, though we know nothing of the cause of that effect,
is palpably attended with pain to anyone who is dear to us, grows odious,
and I began to detest Doctor Bryerly.
It was a grey, dark morning, and in a dark pass in the gallery, near the
staircase, I came full upon the ungainly Doctor, in his glossy black suit.
I think, if my mind had been less anxiously excited on the subject of
his visit, or if I had not disliked him so much, I should not have found
courage to accost him as I did. There was something sly, I thought, in his
dark, lean face; and he looked so low, so like a Scotch artisan in his
Sunday clothes, that I felt a sudden pang of indignation, at the thought
that a great gentleman, like my father, should have suffered under his
influence, and I stopped suddenly, instead of passing him by with a mere
salutation, as he expected, 'May I ask a question, Doctor Bryerly?'
'Certainly'
'Are you the friend whom my father expects?'
'I don't quite see.
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