None presented themselves to save him from that return. “This,” he exclaimed, “must be either the indifference of an utterly callous nature, or it may be—ye gods, it may be—innocence. She entered the front hall, formerly magnificent, now faded and dusty, the old wood table waiting for guests who would never come. We have that gift. The rear of the party was brought up by a large, powerfully-built man, with a bluff, honest, but rugged countenance, slashed with many a cut and scar, and stamped with that surly, sturdy, bull-dog-like look, which an Englishman always delights to contemplate, because he conceives it to be characteristic of his countrymen. After what seemed like an eternity he turned right onto a dirt road that ended unceremoniously at a copse of leafless trees. We'll have him yet.
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