swarthiness, a flashing black eye, and dark, bushy brows and hair. When
he indulged in an occasional loud laugh at some remark among the
guests, his large mouth parted so far back as to show to the rays of the
chandelier a full score or more of the two-and-thirty sound white teeth
that he obviously still could boast of.

That laugh was not encouraging to strangers, and hence it may have been
well that it was rarely heard. Many theories might have been built upon
it. It fell in well with conjectures of a temperament which would have
no pity for weakness, but would be ready to yield ungrudging admiration
to greatness and strength. Its producer's personal goodness, if he had
any, would be of a very fitful cast--an occasional almost oppressive
generosity rather than a mild and constant kindness.

Susan Henchard's husband--in law, at least--sat before them, matured
in shape, stiffened in line, exaggerated in traits; disciplined,
thought-marked--in a word, older. Elizabeth, encumbered with no
recollections as her mother was, regarded him with nothing more than
the keen curiosity and interest which the discovery of such unexpected
social standing in the long-sought relative naturally begot. He was
dressed in an old-fashioned evening suit, an expanse of frilled shirt
showing on his broad breast; jewelled studs, and a heavy gold chain.
Three glasses stood at his right hand; but, to his wife's surprise, the
two for wine were empty, while the third, a tumbler, was half full of
water.

When last she had seen him he was sitting in a corduroy jacket, fustian
waistcoat and breeches, and tanned leather leggings, with a basin of hot
furmity before him. Time, the magician, had wrought much here. Watching
him, and thus thinking of past days, she became so moved that she shrank