How tiny Grandpapa was!
It quite shocked Lydia to see the minute proportions of the stiff little figure that sat back rigidly in the depths of the arm-chair.
Grandpapa’s hand was like a claw, and his eyes looked out of a network of wrinkles such as Lydia had never seen or imagined on a human countenance.
She half expected his voice to be in proportion, but it was in very sharp, incisive tones that he addressed her:
“How d’y do, my dear? You are very young to know grief.”
“Lydia has been very good and brave, and given us no trouble at all, Grandpapa,” said Aunt Beryl.
“That’s right. That’s quite right. How old are you, Lyddie?”
Lydia suddenly remembered that her grandfather had always called her “Lyddie,” although no one else ever did so.
“Twelve and a half, Grandpapa.”
“Can you read?”