"Isn't he a beauty?" she cried. "He is Mr. Weston's."
"Whose?" I asked, concealing my irritation. "Mr. Weston--and who is
Mr. Weston?"
Mary held up a warning finger. There were footfalls on the gravel walk
around the house.
"Sh," she whispered, "here he comes--no one knows who he is."
To this day Robert Weston's age is a mystery to me; I might venture to
guess that it is between thirty and fifty. Past thirty all men begin
to dry up or fatten, and he was certainly a lean person. His face was
hidden beneath a beard of bristling, bushy red, and he had a sharp hook
nose and small, bright eyes. From his appearance you could not tell
whether he was a good man or a bad one, wise or stupid, kind-hearted or
a brute. He seemed of a neutral tone. His clothes marked him as a man
of the city, for we do not wear shooting jackets, and breeches and
leather leggings in our valley. In the way he wore them there was
something that spoke the man of the world, for in such a costume we of
Black Log should feel dressed up and ill at ease; but his clothes
seemed a part of him.
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