This man was forty-one years old, and looked thirty-five.

Lines of chest and waist were those of the athlete.

Still, suspicions of fat, of unwonted softness, had begun to invade those lines.

Here was a splendid body, here was a dominating mind in process of going stale.
The face of the man was a mask of weariness of the soul, which kills so vastly more efficiently than weariness of the body.

You could see that weariness in the tired frown of the black brows, the narrowing of the dark eyes, the downward tug of the lips.