On an ordinary day, in spite of his dislike of allowing Cobbett any of
those duties that were so properly his own, he would have stayed in bed,
but to-day?--no, thank you! On such a day as this he would defy the Devil
himself and all his red-hot pincers! So there he was in his long purple
gown, with his lovely snow-white beard, and his gold-topped staff,
patronising Mrs. Muffit (who superintended the cleaning) and her ancient
servitors, seeing that the places for the Band (just under the choir-
screen) and for the extra members of the choir were all in order, and,
above all, that the Bishop's Throne up by the altar was guiltless of a
speck of dust, of a shadow of a shadow of disorder. Cobbett saw, beyond
any question or doubt, death in the old man's face, and suddenly, to his
own amazement, was sorry. For years now he had been waiting for the day
when he should succeed the tiresome old fool, for years he had cursed him
for a thousand pomposities, blunders, tedious garrulities, and now,
suddenly, he was sorry. What had come over him? But he wasn't a bad old
man; plucky, too; you could see how he was suffering.
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