Death Speaks Softly
“CHAPTER 1 Bernard Warwick leant forward and peered at his face in the shaving mirror. It stared inscrutably back at him, and a smile twitched his mouth. 'Shouldn't like to play you at poker, old man!' his colleagues would remark. 'Never have the faintest idea what you're thinking!' Which was as well, he reflected, lathering his face. (He preferred the traditional method of shaving, had not even unwrapped the electric razor his wife bought him years ago.) He'd learned young the necessity of hidi...ng his feelings, and was not sufficiently interested in others to attempt to discern theirs. He accepted them at face value—they could afford him the same courtesy.
Face value. It was an effective mask, he acknowledged, studying in the glass the unlined brow from which dark hair was brushed uncompromisingly back. The cheeks had a healthy glow, and the clear, firm skin was that of a man half his age. Only the eyes, veiled with a wary blankness, might give an observer pause. It looked an unlived-in face, with no hint of the agony of living endured behind it.MoreLess
Face value. It was an effective mask, he acknowledged, studying in the glass the unlined brow from which dark hair was brushed uncompromisingly back. The cheeks had a healthy glow, and the clear, firm skin was that of a man half his age. Only the eyes, veiled with a wary blankness, might give an observer pause. It looked an unlived-in face, with no hint of the agony of living endured behind it.MoreLess
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