Explore "A Son of Ishmael" by L.T. Meade on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Meanwhile Adrian Rowton had gone quickly back to the Bungalow. It was a truly bare and comfortless place. He kept only one servant, the rough-looking man who has been already described. Hearing his horse's steps on the path outside, the man, Samson by name, came out to meet his master. He was a middle aged, strongly-built, square individual; his hair, which had once been red, was now turning to a grizzly grey; it grew thick on his low forehead and was cut very short, so short that it stood up like a thick brush all over his head. He had a bulldog sort of face, with a massive chin, deeply cleft in the middle; one eye was also decidedly smaller than the other. His name suited the man's broad figure and muscular arms to perfection.
"You are late to-night," he said, addressing Adrian with a sort of growl. "I lay down by the horses and went to sleep; I thought when I heard the clock strike one that you were not coming."