In the early morning, under the dim daylight, Sylvan Cheney got dressed.
He had not slept all night, and his stern and resolute face now bore signs of exhaustion.
He opened the wardrobe and chose a grey tie.
Winter in Landon was exceedingly cold; the fog had not yet dissipated, crystalline icicles hung from the leaves of trees.
Looking out of the window, the outside world was blur and monotone with shades of white and faded yellow dominating the scenery.
Sylvan Cheney adjusted his cuffs and descended the stairs.
"Mr. Cheney, good morning, I was about to call you, Miss Fern is here," Butler Santana stood downstairs, behaving with great respect.
A few strands of indifference emerged in Sylvan Cheney's eyes: "Which Miss Fern?"
Butler Santana quickly clarified: "It's Miss Yolanda Fern."
Due to Mr. Cheney's orders, regardless of who came, he must be informed.
Therefore, Yolanda was still waiting outside.
Sylvan Cheney lifted his head and narrowed his eyes to look outside.
