chesterton

He was unquestionably dead. The blood flowed in the grass from ahopelessly fatal fracture at the back of the skull; but the face,which was turned to the sun, was uninjured and strangely arrestingin itself. It was one of those cases of a strange face sounmistakable as to feel familiar. We feel, somehow, that we ought torecognize it, even though we do not. It was of the broad, squaresort with great jaws, almost like that of a highly intellectual ape;the wide mouth shut so tight as to be traced by a mere line; thenose short with the sort of nostrils that seem to gape with anappetite for the air. The oddest thing about the face was that oneof the eyebrows was cocked up at a much sharper angle than theother. March thought he had never seen a face so naturally alive asthat dead one. And its ugly energy seemed all the stranger for itshalo of hoary hair. Some papers lay half fallen out of the pocket,and from among them March extracted a card-case.

He read the name onthe card aloud."Sir Humphrey Turnbull. I'm sure I've heard that name somewhere."