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his hand.
The bunch of roses would have enlightened any one less ignorant that
Gwynplaine. The right of judging with a nosegay in his hand implied the
holder to be a magistrate, at once royal and municipal. The Lord Mayor
of London still keeps up the custom. To assist the deliberations of the
judges was the function of the earliest roses of the season.
The old man seated on the bench was the sheriff of the county of Surrey.
His was the majestic rigidity of a Roman dignitary.
The bench was the only seat in the cell.
By the side of it was a table covered with papers and books, on which
lay the long, white wand of the sheriff. The men standing by the side of
the sheriff were two doctors, one of medicine, the other of law; the
latter recognizable by the Serjeant's coif over his wig. Both wore black
robes--one of the shape worn by judges, the other by doctors.
Men of these kinds wear mourning for the deaths of which they are the
cause.
Behind the sheriff, at the edge of the flat stone under the seat, was
crouched--with a writing-table near to him, a bundle of papers on his
knees, and a sheet of parchment on the bundle--a secretary, in a round
wig, with a pen in his hand, in the attitude of a man ready to write.
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