A short something, a loose thread that I've pulled.
Edmund would have arrived at his new home with his arms full of boxes and packages had not Mr. Shears been so adamant that gentlemen carry nothing that a servant had taken them from him the moment Edmund stepped off the carriage. Edmund would then have protested had he not been stunned into silence by the sight of his new place of residence; his head, filled with a steady buzz only sleep could cure, spun from the many stops they had made along the way. Mr. Shears had pulled him from shop to shop to fit him in the best cloth money and influence could buy; and Edmund, already sufficiently impressed with his new master’s power, was surprised to see that even Mr. Edward's manservant was recognized on sight, and despite the late hour, every door had been thrown open to them—and every window, for good measure. Candles had been lighted, tea brewed and poured into delicate cups, tall sample books set out before them, illustrations and mock-ups pulled from drawers, unwrapped from their tissue paper, their contents laid bare in the light of the hurriedly-lit candles and gas lamps. Everywhere they had been met with whispers and nods of recognition, and every owner—every person--down to the last clerk, maid, and teller had been delighted to meet him and trembled at his formal introduction.