Lincoln's shock of iron-grey hair and furrowed brow, a weather-beaten shade of brown and paper thin, made him seem much older than his fifty-four years. He was a familiar figure in the small town of Valedale, and everyone could recognise him simply by his singular way of walking. He hobbled through the narrow streets as though his long, wiry frame was in need of oiling. There was no spring in his step, no bend in his legs. His hands hung limply by his side. If offered the help of a cane or a stranger's arm, he would rebuff them in a gruff-toned, gravelly voice.
And yet his eyes, bright and alive, were a brilliant blue. His nose was straight and sleek, his jaw still strong. He might seem an old man to a passer-by, but if you came face-to-face with Lincoln, you would know he was still as sharp as any of the up and coming lawyers who challenged him.
