Denver at once appropriated a
chair and seated himself in his usual noiseless way.
When he rearranged the silver which the waiter placed before him, there
was not the faintest click of the metal. And Terry noted, too, a certain
nice justness in every one of Denver's motions. He was never fiddling
about with his hands; when they stirred, it was to do something, and when
the thing was done, the hands became motionless again.
His eyes did not rove; they remained fixed for appreciable periods
wherever they fell, as though Denver were finding something worth
remembering in the wall, or in a spot on the table. When his glance
touched on a face, it hung there in the same manner. After a moment one
would forget all the rest of his face, brutal, muscular, shapeless, and
see only the keen eyes.
Terry found it difficult to face the man. There was need to be excited
about something, to talk with passion, in order to hold one's own in the
presence of Denver, even when the chunky man was silent. He was not
silent now; he seemed in a highly cheerful, amiable mood.
"Here's luck," he said. "I didn't know this God-forsaken country could
raise as much luck as this!"
"Luck?" echoed Terry.
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