The other, a lad of
sixteen or thereabouts, only followed with a scared look, doing what
his Lieutenant commanded. As for Lord Purceville, he sat himself in
the chair that Mary had occupied, and stared at the woman icily,
beckoning (ordering) his son to sit across from him. The widow Scott
could only look back at him in dismay, and try not to notice his thick
black boots, resting at the very edge of the carpet.
He was heavier, and grayer than she remembered, those many long years
ago. But her first impression of him then---that of a bull about to
charge---still held true. He was a big man, both taller and more
thickly muscled than his son. Their faces were much alike, except that
the father's was fuller: more rudely carved, more deeply lined, more
savage.
But if harsh features were a mark of lesser intelligence, then the
rule was broken here. His mind was more than a match for his son's, or
even Mary's. The truly frightening thing about him, as she would soon
learn, was that this glowering beast, this physical brute, was also
sharper and shrewder than any man she had ever known.
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