I don't know what I expected to see, but it wasn't this. My idea of Immortals was much colored by fantasy literature and films. I'd have expected an Immortal to be young, muscular, and wearing something that looked like a Roman soldier's outfit.
Instead I saw a thin, bald man in his fifties. He was wearing a worn jacket with leather patches at the elbows. His trousers were straight, and his old-fashioned shoes were well polished. It looked as though he'd had been to an English pub with old friends, to eat shepherd's pie and perhaps have one pint.
He had round spectacles on his nose, and a kind and tired look in his eyes.
When we entered the room, he immediately closed the book he was reading, put it carefully on the table, folded his glasses and put them in his vest pocket, and rose to his feet, facing us. I had a glance at the book. It was the first volume of Lord of the Rings, I noticed, one of my childhood favorites.
"Good - ah - morning," the man bowed slightly and I realised that he'd probably lost all sense of time. "William Donnelly at your service."
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