And then, all suddenly, it seemed that he could think of nothing else but the completely unknown personality⁠—apparently that of the clergyman of the place⁠—referred to so contemptuously by Mr. Urquhart as “Tilly-Valley.” While the syllables “Tilly-Valley” repeated themselves in his brain, the person concealed behind that odd appellation ceased to be a man. He became some queer-shaped floating object that could not be put into words, and yet was of the utmost importance. What was of importance was that an obstinate bend in that floating object should be straightened out. Something was preventing it from being straightened out, something that emanated from a black wig and a woollen shawl, and was extremely thick and heavy, and had a taste like port wine!