The mist on his bangs had dried, partially obscuring his face.
With the addition of a face mask, he looked like a seventeen or eighteen-year-old boy.
His eyes were red and moist.
Chris Fern did not say 'no', thus indirectly admitting to everything.
He was so exhausted that he didn't have the strength to speak. His heart and lungs felt as though they had been drained, turning him into a walking corpse.
His gaze was lost and hollow, the corners of his eyes damp with shallow mist.
Throughout, he did not remove his mask, so no one could see more of his expression.
"Why did you have to push grandfather to his death's door? Don't you have any feelings for him?" Sylvan Cheney's voice was filled with deep helplessness.
Spencer Childe was ruthless and shrewd in his younger years.
He rarely showed too much emotion to anyone.
As he aged and his rationality faded away, it was replaced by the vast expanse of sentimentality.
