It was
distinctly not an aristocratic mouth. It suggested common speech
and common tastes--ruddy tastes--tastes for quantity rather than
for quality. His skin, his flesh were also plainly not
aristocratic; they lacked that fineness of grain, that finish of
surface which are got only by eating the costly, rare, best and
best-prepared food. His hair, a partially disordered mop over-
hanging his brow at the middle, gave him fierceness of aspect. The
old lady had more than a suspicion that the ferocity of that lock
of hair and somewhat exaggerated forward thrust of the jaw were
pose--in part, at least, an effort to look the valiant and
relentless master of men--perhaps concealing a certain amount of
irresolution. Certainly those eyes met hers boldly rather than
fearlessly.
She extended her hand. He took it, and with an effort gave it the
politician's squeeze--the squeeze that makes Hiram Hanks and Bill
Butts grin delightedly and say to each other: "B'gosh, he ain't
lost his axe-handle grip yet, by a durn sight, has he?--dog-gone
him!"
Madam Bowker did not wince, though she felt like it. Instead she
smiled--a faint, derisive smile that made Craig color
uncomfortably.
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