CHAPTER VI
There were a quality of voice, of eye, and a fine, upstanding rush of
sooty black hair which he tried to japan down with a pair of swift
military brushes, in the way of woman's safest judgment of
Bruce Visigoth.
By the quieter kinetics of his own sex, he was a man's man. He
commingled easily in his clubs, a university, a Mask and Wig, a Long
Island Canoe, and the Gramercy. Preceding his brother in this last and
later proposing him.
The resemblance between the two was neither of form nor of feature.
Rather, it was fleeting as a wing; in fact, was just that. There was
something in the batting of the eye, a slant of lid, that showed the
mysterious corpuscles of the same blood asserting themselves. Yet it was
more the likeness of father and son; the older man shorter, wider of
thigh, and with none of that fleet, rather sensitive lift of head,
partly because his neck was shorter and not upflung as if so sensitive
to the very rush of air that the flanges of the nostrils quivered.
There was a more nervous organization to Bruce that gave him something
of the startled look of wild horse, particularly with the laid-back
Mercury wing effect to his hair.
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