We dine at seven-thirty. His countenance was pale as death, but not a muscle quivered; nor did he betray the slightest appearance of fear. Wood's reply, if he intended any, was cut short by a loud knocking at the door. ’ Quick anger flared, surpassing the fluttering hope. “Then I don’t take this as final. He was alert, well-groomed, and yet—perhaps in contrast with the more volatile French type—there was a suggestion of weight about him, not to say heaviness.
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