He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. There were the burnt papers still in the grate. "Where is he?" he cried. He glanced at Ruth (who had stood with her back to the wall, pinned there throughout the contest by terror and the knowledge of her own helplessness), then at the bronze menace, and calculated correctly that this particular adventure was finished. “LOOKS all right,” said Ann Veronica, regarding him with her head first on one side and then on the other, and trying to be agreeable.
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