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Lastly Etwald. It is difficult to describe the indescribable. He was austere in face, like Dante, with hollow cheeks, and a pallid hue which told of midnight studies. If he had passions, they could not be discerned in his features. Eye and mouth and general expression were like a mask. What actually lay behind that mask no one ever knew, for it was never off. His slightly hollow chest, his lean and nervous hands, and a shock of rather long, curling hair, tossed from a high forehead, gave Etwald the air of a student. But there was something sinister and menacing in his regard. He looked dangerous and more than a trifle uncanny. Physically, mentally, morally he was an enigma to the bovine inhabitants of Deanminster and Hurstleigh. Patricia was silent, weighing this suggestion. They both broke into negation at once as they reached their own front door. Here Jen looked suddenly at Etwald, and recalled the dinner at which the doctor had read the dead man's hand. Then he had prophesied ill of Maurice--an ill which it would seem had been fulfilled. Now, with equal curtness, he was prognosticating evil for Isabella. Vexed at such croakings, Jen spoke abruptly:.
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Judith's bow was on one eye and her hat under her arm, showing that she had made great haste to join the growing crowd in the first antique room. She looked even more agitated than Patricia had expected her to be. "Isn't it lucky?" cried Patricia radiantly. "You'll see about it right away, won't you, Elinor? It has a splendid view of the park. I know she'll love that. You know how she hates 'bricks and mortar.'" "How do you know that the poisons are the same?" "I think you ought to use better language, Miss Pat, now that you are going to be a sculptor," said Judith severely, and then broke into open delight. "We'll go, won't we, Elinor? We wouldn't disappoint David, would we? On his birthday, too.".
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