He stiffened and stood rigid too, listening to the tapping
noise that issued from its hollow interior of wood and iron. Watching
him with remorseless mien, the kitchen clock asked him for the
password. "Why not? Why not?" its ticking said distinctly.
The warmth was comforting. He sat down on the white deal table,
knowing himself an intruder, but boldly facing the tall monster that
guarded the deserted room and challenged him. "_You_ haven't stopped,"
he answered in his beard. "Why not?" And as he said it, a new
expression stole upon its hardened countenance, the challenge melted,
the obdurate stare relaxed. The quaint, grandfatherly aspect of
benevolence shone over it like a smile; it looked not only kind, but
contrite. He saw it as it used to be, ages and ages ago, when he was a
boy, sliding down the banisters towards it, or towards its counterpart
in the hall. It winked.
The ticking, too, became less aggressive and relentless, less sure of
itself, almost as though it were slowing up. There was a plaintive
note behind the metallic sharpness. The great kitchen clock also was
aware of a conspiracy hatching against Time.
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