I started and looked round.
At a table near me sat two men whom I had not noticed before. The
face of the man who sat on the opposite side of the table confronted
me.
If I had one tithe of that objective power and that instinct for
description which used to amaze me in Winifred as a child, I could
give here a picture of a face which the reader could never forget.
If it was not beautiful in detail it was illuminated by an expression
that gave a unity of beauty to the whole. And what was the
expression? I can only describe it by saying that it was the
expression of genius; and it had that imperious magnetism which I had
never before seen in any face save that of Sinfi Lovell. But striking
as was the face of this man, I soon found that his voice was more
striking still. In whatever assembly that voice was heard, its
indescribable resonance would have marked it off from all other
voices, and have made the ear of the listener eager to catch the
sound. This voice, however, was not the one that had uttered the name
of Wilderspin. It was from his companion, who sat opposite to him,
with his great broad back, covered with a smart velvet coat, towards
me, that the talk was now coming.
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