On his bed, Johnson Derick was snoozing. He slowly opened his eyes and took a moment to hear the grasshoppers buzzing outside. He stood up while swallowing the bitterness in his mouth as the sun streamed in through the blinds like some dazzling, hot metal. Because of his diminutive stature, he could see his pitiful face in the low mirror in the room's middle: hollow cheeks, a long red nose that appeared to have been worn to a point like a stick of barley sugar, and a sharp angle of closely cropped hair pointing down over a wrinkled forehead. Two rows of tooth rot caught his attention as he made a frown at the reflection. He had never loathed himself more, yet he managed to utter a few words of sympathy: "Out for a walk, you wretched devil," before touching his uncleanly shaven chin. But how could he leave without arousing his father? M. John P?loueyre enforced perfect silence between the hours of one and four, and it was during these hours of rest that he avoided passing out from sleeplessness each night. No door could be closed or opened, and neither a word nor a sneeze could disturb the silence that he had taught Derick and the servants to abide by after ten years of groans and pleas. Even the passersby on the street kept their voices down as they went by beneath his windows, and carriages went out of their way to avoid rattling by his door by driving a block around it.
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