Marcus Chard must have been somewhere in the early forties. He was about Simon’s height, but much broader; enormous shoulders and a thick bull neck. In another few years he would be definitely stout. He had a broad, flattish face; a good nose with flaring nostrils; a heavy dark jaw shaved so closely that it looked glossy. His thick dark hair was brushed back from a square forehead. I did not altogether care for the expression of his eyes. They were too unpleasantly acute; too small; too shrewd and brown and lively. But when he smiled their whole expression changed. They almost disappeared in
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