"'Ere, 'ere," remonstrated Joey nervously. "We can't 'ave any old
quarrels took up in my 'ouse."
"_I'm_ not quarreling, Joey," said Braddock, still watching David's
face. David had the feeling, quite suddenly, that he was looking into
eyes he had never seen before--intent, hard, steady eyes that were full
of purpose. They were no longer blood-shot and protruding: they seemed
to slink back under the pallid, bony brow, looking forth with a sort of
cunning that suggested a hiding animal, nothing less.
The change in Tom Braddock was astounding. David had always thought of
him as the bullying, bloated giant, purple-faced and blear-eyed. His
face was thin and gray--with the pallor of the prison still upon it;
his cheeks were sunken, and the heavy stubble of beard that filled the
hollows was a dirty white. One would have guessed this apparition of
Tom Braddock to be sixty years of age, at least. His hair, still
rather closely cropped, was no longer black, but a defiant, obtrusive
gray. The heavy neck was now thin and corded; the broad shoulders
drooped as if deprived of all their youthful power.
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