It was infamous, it was insulting.

The malcontents of the punt paid little heed to his remonstrances.

They resented the entrusting of their fortunes to one whose chin barely rose above the level of the table.
The banker lit a cigarette and sat back in his chair with a smile of mockery.

His attitude brought up the superfluous flesh about his chin and the roll of fat at the back of his neck.

With his moustache _en croc_, and his shoebrush hair, I have rarely beheld a more sensual-looking desperado.
"But gentlemen," said he, "I see no objection whatever to Monsieur playing the hand." "Naturally," retorted a voice, "since it would be to your advantage." The raven in the dinner-jacket commanded silence.
"Gentlemen, I decide that, according to the rules of the game, Monsieur is entitled to play the hand." "Bravo!" exclaimed one or two of my friend's supporters.
"_C'est idiot_!" growled the malcontents.
"_Messieurs, faites vos jeux_!" cried the croupier.
The stakes were laid, the banker looked around, estimating the comparative values of the two tableaux.