Busy and tell-tale, they did not try to
conceal the story of the body into which they had prematurely cut
themselves. Nor did Julian's features choose to back up any reserve
his mind might possibly feel about acknowledging the consummate
alteration of his life. They proclaimed, as from a watch-tower, the
arrival of enemies. The cheeks were no longer firm, but heavy and
flaccid. The mouth was deformed by the down-drawn looseness of the
sensualist, and the complexion beaconed with an unnatural scarlet that
was a story to be read by every street-boy.
Yet, even so, the doctor, as he looked pitifully and with a gnawing grief
upon Julian, felt not the mysterious thrill communicated to him by
Valentine. These two men, these old time friends of his, were both in a
sense strangers. But it was as if he had at least heard much of Julian,
knew much of him, understood him, comprehended exactly why he was a
stranger. Valentine was the total stranger, the unknown, the undivined.
Long ago the doctor had foreseen the possibility of the Julian who now
stood before him. He had never foreseen the possibility of the new
Valentine. The one change was summed up in an instant. The other walked
in utter mystery. The doctor had been swift to notice Julian's furtive
glance, and was equally swift in banishing all trace of surprise from
his own manner.
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