But Benedict himself

David Garnett, No love, Londres, Chatto and Windus, 1929.

.. ring of wood became lignified, and immovable parts of the structure. Books accumulated in heaps, filing cabinet filled up with the notes of his experiments, gas bills were stuck on nails, old boots were kicked under the dresser.
But Benedict himself, the caddis-worm in the centre of these accumulations, was unaware that he was becoming fossilised and middle-aged. His eyes sparkled, his white teeth gleamed, there was no grey in his haïr, and when he went to open the door he was fresh, eager, full of gay enthusiasm,