The monkey started, dropped
the skin, and grinned up at him amicably.
He went towards the office door and with some difficulty managed to open
it. He entered in a cloud of dust that rose under his feet.
Books open with torn pages bestrewed the floor; other books lay about
grimy and black, looking as if they had never been opened. Account
books. In those books he had intended to keep day by day a record of his
rising fortunes. Long time ago. A very long time. For many years there
has been no record to keep on the blue and red ruled pages! In the
middle of the room the big office desk, with one of its legs broken,
careened over like the hull of a stranded ship; most of the drawers had
fallen out, disclosing heaps of paper yellow with age and dirt. The
revolving office chair stood in its place, but he found the pivot set
fast when he tried to turn it. No matter. He desisted, and his eyes
wandered slowly from object to object. All those things had cost a lot
of money at the time. The desk, the paper, the torn books, and the
broken shelves, all under a thick coat of dust. The very dust and bones
of a dead and gone business. He looked at all these things, all that was
left after so many years of work, of strife, of weariness, of
discouragement, conquered so many times.
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