Excerpt from Belgravia, Vol. 98: A London Magazine
The Reverend Julian St. John laid down his pen, and arose with a courteous bow to greet the lady who had requested a few minutes of his valuable time. He was a tall man, rather stout, with fair thin nair, a somewhat florid complexion, and a general appearance of well-being.
"Mrs. Sullivan, I believe?" he queried, with a glance at the scrap of pasteboard on his writing table, followed by a smile that was a fine blending of encouragement and self-depreciation.
"Yes. And you are Mr. St. John, are you not?" taking the chair the Vicar proffered her.
He bowed, and looked with interest at the face turned towards him so eagerly - a calm face, with earnest gray eyes, a somewhat large though kindly mouth, and a determined chin. Mary Sullivan was forty years of age, and her brown hair was thickly streaked with white, yet she had, probably, not been so beautiful in her youth as she now was in her comely middle age.
The Vicar was accustomed to visitors of all sorts and conditions. They came on different missions; some to seek his ghostly counsel, or to ask of him assistance in philanthropic work, for he was well-known for his benevolence.
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