He sat with folded arms and knitted brows, thinking intently. The wound lay open for five seconds, and then closed neatly as if it had been stitched by invisible hands. ‘Of course it is,’ corroborated Hilary. She looked down at him and saw that the sunlight was gleaming from his cheeks, and that all over his cheeks was a fine golden down of delicate hairs. Valade, who was standing by her chair, glancing around the packed pink-papered saloon with a heavy frown on his face, was a thickset man of coarse, reddened feature, with a discontented air.
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