Gay, was a stout, good-looking, good-humoured man, about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an oval face, fine black eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish humour—an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a very shrewd and sarcastic curl. A phase of mental activity that men called courage: to summon at will this energy which barred the ingress of the long cold fingers of fear, which cleared the throat of stuffiness and kept the glance level and ever forward. ‘So are you. ‘Who me, sir? Lor’ no, sir. Wood, I desire you'll put on your best things, and join us as soon as possible. The slight smile that played upon Winifred's lips seemed to say that she was not quite so sure.
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