There was in Lawler's lean face as he turned front his mother and peered steadily out into the valley, a hint of volcanic force, of resistless energy held in leash by a contrary power. That power might have been grim humor — for his keen gray eyes were now gleaming with something akin to humor — it might have been cynical tolerance — for his lips were twisted into a curious, mirthless half-smile; it might have been the stern repression that had governed him all his days.
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