Only the head seemed to have retained its vigour. The face,
from which the long black hair was brushed straight back, was ghastly
white. Out of it, deep set beneath great shaggy, overhanging brows,
blazed the fierce, restless eyes of a fanatic. The huge, thin-lipped
mouth seemed to have petrified itself into a savage snarl. He gave Joan
the idea, as he stood there glaring round him, of a hunted beast at bay.
Miss Ensor, whose bump of reverence was undeveloped, greeted him
cheerfully as Boanerges. Mr. Simson, more respectful, rose and offered
his small, grimy hand. Mary took his hat and cloak away from him and
closed the door behind him. She felt his hands, and put him into a chair
close to the fire. And then she introduced him to Joan.
Joan started on hearing his name. It was one well known.
"The Cyril Baptiste?" she asked. She had often wondered what he might be
like.
"The Cyril Baptiste," he answered, in a low, even, passionate voice, that
he flung at her almost like a blow. "The atheist, the gaol bird, the
pariah, the blasphemer, the anti-Christ.
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