He righted a chair and sat in it, his face in his hands. "Do you realize that you are several kinds of a damned scoundrel?" he began. A gaunt, powerful man: no feature of his face decided, and yet for all that it had the significance of a countenance hewn out of rock. ‘Jacques! This—this bête he attacks me, and you stand there and you do nothing. At length he proceeded toward McClintock's bungalow, drawn by the lights and the sound of music.
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