Gay, was a stout, good-looking, good-humoured man, about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an oval face, fine black eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish humour—an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a very shrewd and sarcastic curl. They are things faint and slight in themselves, as physical facts, but they are like the detonator of a bomb: they let loose the explosive. Here, indeed, was a type with which he had never until now come into contact—a natural woman. On reaching the churchyard, he perceived the melancholy procession descending the hill.
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