Загублений світ
He is a Perfectly Impossible Person
Itwashissizewhichtookone’sbreathaway—hissizeandhisimposingpresence.Hisheadwasenormous,thelargestIhaveeverseenuponahumanbeing.Iamsurethathistop-hat,hadIeverventuredtodonit,wouldhaveslippedovermeentirelyandrestedonmyshoulders.HehadthefaceandbeardwhichIassociatewithanAssyrianbull;theformerflorid,thelattersoblackasalmosttohaveasuspicionofblue,spade-shapedandripplingdownoverhischest.Thehairwaspeculiar,plastereddowninfrontinalong,curvingwispoverhismassiveforehead.Theeyeswereblue-grayundergreatblacktufts,veryclear,verycritical,andverymasterful.Ahugespreadofshouldersandachestlikeabarrelweretheotherpartsofhimwhichappearedabovethetable,savefortwoenormoushandscoveredwithlongblackhair.Thisandabellowing,roaring,rumblingvoicemadeupmyfirstimpressionofthenotoriousProfessorChallenger.
"Well?"saidhe,withamostinsolentstare."Whatnow?"
Imustkeepupmydeceptionforatleastalittletimelonger,otherwiseherewasevidentlyanendoftheinterview.
"Youweregoodenoughtogivemeanappointment,sir,"saidI,humbly,producinghisenvelope.
Hetookmyletterfromhisdeskandlaiditoutbeforehim.
"Oh,youaretheyoungpersonwhocannotunderstandplainEnglish,areyou?Mygeneralconclusionsyouaregoodenoughtoapprove,asIunderstand?"
"Entirely,sir—entirely!"Iwasveryemphatic.
