Carlisle hmms in reply, nodding. Qubit is right, of course — as he so often is — but old habits die hard as the clergyman continues, his expression sober, reserved. He tries to keep his emotions from his voice, as though it would help mitigate how he feels — how he has felt for years and years and years. Perhaps he'd have been better off if he had learned to express his frustration in a healthy way rather than always worrying what others — like his father, and the townsfolk, and everyone who ever heard of the Longinmouths — thought of him.

"He was distant after that, more so than before. Not just to me, but- but to all of us. When that portrait was painted, it was one of the last times he and my uncles were in a room together without argument. I think..."

He trails off with a quiet sigh. "I think he was more concerned for me as the heir of the bloodline, rather than as his son."