Book The First: Poverty Chapter 13 Patriarchal

There is no such place in that part now; but it
remained there for many years, looking with a baulked countenance at
the wilderness patched with unfruitful gardens and pimpled with eruptive
summerhouses, that it had meant to run over in no time.

'The house,' thought Clennam, as he crossed to the door, 'is as little
changed as my mother's, and looks almost as gloomy. But the likeness
ends outside. I know its staid repose within. The smell of its jars of
old rose-leaves and lavender seems to come upon me even here.'

When his knock at the bright brass knocker of obsolete shape brought a
woman-servant to the door, those faded scents in truth saluted him like
wintry breath that had a faint remembrance in it of the bygone spring.
He stepped into the sober, silent, air-tight house--one might have
fancied it to have been stifled by Mutes in the Eastern manner--and the
door, closing again, seemed to shut out sound and motion. The
furniture was formal, grave, and quaker-like, but well-kept; and had as
prepossessing an aspect as anything, from a human creature to a wooden
stool, that is meant for much use and is preserved for little, can ever
wear.

There was a grave clock, ticking somewhere up the staircase; and
there was a songless bird in the same direction, pecking at his cage, as
if he were ticking too. The parlour-fire ticked in the grate. There was
only one person on the parlour-hearth, and the loud watch in his pocket
ticked audibly.