One would say, guessing, that he was thirty six or eight
years of age. As a matter of fact, he was fifty-five.
David noticed that he never allowed his gaze to leave the face of Mary
Braddock, except to occasionally traverse her figure from crown to
foot. The boy's dislike grew to actual resentment. He experienced a
fierce desire to rush out and strike the man across the eyes.
He could not hear what they were talking about. Broddock, tipsy as
usual, was urging something on her in low, insistent tones. His manner
was that of one who espouses a forlorn hope; he argued with the
insinuating, doubting earnestness so characteristic of the man who
knows that he is operating against his own best interests in the face
of one who fully understands the weakness that impels him. Mrs.
Braddock stood before him, cold, passive, unconvinced. Her greeting
for the newcomer had been most unfriendly. She deliberately turned her
back on him, after the first short "good afternoon." As for the
stranger, he did not take part in the conversation. He stood close to
her elbow, the trace of a smile on his lips.
Suddenly her tense body relaxed.
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