leaving
him to
hold the
pony, went
into a
long low
parlour
looking
towards
the
street,
from the
window of
which I
caught a
glimpse,
as I went
in, of
Uriah Heep
breathing
into the
pony's
nostrils,
and
immediately
covering
them with
his hand,
as if he
were
putting
some spell
upon him.
Opposite
to the
tall old
chimney-piece
were two
portraits:
one of a
gentleman
with grey
hair
(though
not by any
means an
old man)
and black
eyebrows,
who was
