He had a flattish, perhaps, it should be called, a flattened nose, and a brown, leathernlooking hide, that seemed as if it had not unfrequently undergone the process of tanning. It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday. For a moment, Kneebone had hesitated about giving the signal to Shotbolt, but, thinking a more favourable opportunity might occur, he determined not to hazard matters by undue precipitation. She was suddenly grave. I could not keep away any longer. Panic leapt into his eyes as he brought his wrist up just in time to parry the blade. Some one had once, in his hearing, called him a prig.
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