One leg of his dark grey trousers had been creased in two places, and there were little spots of blood on his high white collar because he had cut himself shaving.

His complexion was of the same old suppressed purple, but his little eyes were bright and shining and active; they danced towards Maggie.

His scanty locks had been carefully brushed over his bald head, and his hands, although they were still puffed and swollen, were whiter than Maggie had ever seen them.
But it was in the end his attitude of confused defiance that made her pause.

What had he been doing, or what did he intend to do?
He was prosperous, she could see, and knowing him as she did, she was afraid of his prosperity.

She had never in her life realised so clearly as she did now that he was a wicked old man--and still she was glad to see him.