In any case he was there, sound in wind and limb, a tall,
square-shouldered, ruddy man of thirty-five, seated behind an oak
desk, turning Hollister's card over in his fingers with an
anticipatory smile. Blankness replaced the smile. A sort of horrified
wonder gleamed in his eyes. Hollister perceived that his face shocked
the specialist in B.C. timber, filled Mr. Lewis with very mixed
sensations indeed.
"You have my card. It is several years since we met. I dare say you
find me unrecognizable," Hollister said bluntly. "Nevertheless I can
identify myself to your satisfaction."
A peculiarity of Hollister's disfigurement was the immobility of his
face. The shell which had mutilated him, the scalpels of the German
field surgeons who had perfunctorily repaired the lacerations, had
left the reddened, scar-distorted flesh in a rigid mold. He could
neither recognizably smile nor frown. His face, such as it was, was
set in unchangeable lines. Out of this rigid, expressionless mask his
eyes glowed, blue and bright, having escaped injury. They were the
only key to the mutations of his mind.
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