He raised his eyes.

The plump hand of the lady with the Roman nose still rested on her lap; it had been recased in its black glove with large white stitching.

Her frowning gaze was fixed on him suspiciously, as if he had outraged her sense of decency.
"He did n't get anything from me," said the voice of the red-faced man, ending a talk on tax-gatherers.

The train whistled loudly, and Shelton reverted to his paper.

This time he crossed his legs, determined to enjoy the latest murder; once more he found himself looking at the vagrant's long-nosed, mocking face.