His grip, relaxed for a second, closed on her fingers again. He was
drawing her towards the window. They stared through it together, almost
pressing their faces to the pane.
Beyond it, within the shop, surrounded by countless spotlessly polished
bottles, his features reflected in a flashing mirror, stood an old man,
bending over a mahogany counter, while with delicate fingers he
rearranged a line of gallipots in a glass-covered case.
"Is--is he--"
The boy paused, and Tilda heard him gulp down something in his throat.
"Suppose," he whispered, "if--if it should be God?"
"Ga'r'n!" said Tilda, pulling herself together.
"You're sure it's only Prospero?" he asked, still in a whisper.
Before she could answer him--but indeed she could have found no answer,
never having heard of Prospero--the boy had dragged her forward and
thrust open one of the glass swing-doors. It was he who now showed the
courage.
"My lord!"
"Hey?" The old chemist looked up over his spectacles, held for an
instant a gallipot suspended between finger and thumb, and set it down
with nice judgment. He was extremely bald, and he pushed his spectacles
high up on his scalp.
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