He fought down an impulse to go in search of him and presently the mood passed, his muscles relaxed, and he stretched out again in the chair.
Producing tobacco and paper he rolled a cigarette, noting with a satisfied smile the steadiness of his hand.

Once he had overheard a man telling another man that Calumet Marston had no nerves.

He knew that; had known it.

He knew also that this faculty of control made his passions more dangerous.

But he reveled in his passions, the possession of them filled him with an ironic satisfaction--they were his heritage.
While he sat in the chair the blackness of the night enveloped him.