“Kavanagh continued his walk in the direction of Mr. Churchill's residence. This, at least, was unchanged,—quite unchanged. The same white front, the same brass knocker, the same old wooden gate, with its chain and ball, the same damask roses under the windows, the same sunshine without and within. The outer door and study door were both open, as usual in the warm weather, and at the table sat Mr. Churchill, writing. Over each ear was a black and inky stump of a pen, which, like the two ravens perched on Odin's shoulders, seemed to whisper to him all that passed in heaven and on earth. On this occasion, their revelations were of the earth. He was correcting school exercises.”
Book:Kavanagh