While he gazed, this was torn suddenly aside, as if by an angry,
impatient hand, and a man leaned out, throwing back the hair from his
forehead, to catch the cold wind which was blowing sharply. Guy had
never seen the dark, passionate face before, but he know whose it was
very well, though there was little family likeness to guide him. Cyril
Brandon's features were small and finely cut, like his sister's; but
there the resemblance ended. His complexion, naturally sallow, had been
burnt three shades deeper by the Indian sun. His fierce black eyes, and
thin lips, that seemed always ready to curl or quiver, made the contrast
with Constance very striking.
Livingstone drew back into the farthest shadow of the garden trees. He
knew how much reason Cyril had for hating him above all living men, and
he did not wish to risk a meeting. Mohun's warning shot across his mind,
and he felt it was rightly founded.
Brandon looked out for some minutes without moving, then he dropped his
head suddenly on his arms with a heavy groan. The bright light was
behind him, and Guy could see his clasped fingers twisting and tearing
at each other, as if he wished to distract mental agony by the sense of
bodily pain.
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