He was courteous in an old-world way, soft-spoken, suave, and unmistakably from south of Mason and Dixon.
"A Southerner," I said.
"Georgia, sir." He bowed and smiled, as only a Southerner can bow and smile.
His features and expression were genial and gentle, and yet his mouth was the cruellest gash I had ever seen in a man's face.

It was a gash.

There is no other way of describing that harsh, thin-lipped, shapeless mouth that uttered gracious things so graciously.

Involuntarily I glanced at his hands.

Like the mate's, they were thick-boned, broken-knuckled, and malformed.