She felt that this did not make much difference.
She knew exactly how he was looking--cold, self-contained, implacable as granite.

She had seldom seen him look otherwise.

His face was a perpetual mask to her.

It was this very inscrutability of his that had first waked in her the desire to see him among her retinue of slaves.
She went forward slowly, striving to attain at least a semblance of composure.

At first it seemed that he would wait for her where he was; then unexpectedly he moved to meet her.