He was alert, well-groomed, and yet—perhaps in contrast with the more volatile French type—there was a suggestion of weight about him, not to say heaviness. ” He shook her diminutive hand. His name was Marvel, and his avocation, which was as repulsive as his looks, was that of public executioner. “Yes, I will go,” she promised, with a queer little smile. She looked from Anna, who was far too nice-looking to be travelling about alone, to that reassuring pile of luggage, and wrinkled her brows thoughtfully.
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