‘Gérard, do not go,’ she cried, breathless. I wouldn’t even have to use very much gasoline. He was wearing a new silk hat, with a slightly more generous brim than its predecessor, and it suited his type of face, robbed his dark eyes a little of their aggressiveness and gave him a solid and dignified and benevolent air. Grasping one of chairs about the little table, he drew it forward and sat astride it, in a fashion as insolent as it was unexpected. She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones. His head was small and bullet-shaped, and he did not wear a wig, but had his sleek black hair cut off closely round his temples.
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