There was the bull-dog jaw, the iron mouth, and the aggressive blue eye of the man who takes and keeps by force rather than by astuteness.

Though his face had lines in it and his complexion was far from brilliant he looked scarcely forty years of age, and his short, rough, sandy hair had not yet begun to turn grey.
He was not ugly, but Margaret had always seen something in his face that repelled her.

It was some lack of proportion somewhere, which she could not precisely define; it was something that was out of the common type of faces, but that was disquieting rather than interesting.

Instead of wondering what it meant, those who noticed it wished it were not there.
Margaret was sure she could distinguish his heavy step from Griggs's when he was near her, but she would not look up from her book till he stopped and spoke to her.
'Good-morning, Madame Cordova; how are you this morning ?' he inquired, holding out his hand.

'You didn't expect to see me on board, did you ?' His tone was hard and business-like, but he lifted his yachting cap politely as he held out his hand.