Automatically Rainsford shook the man's hand.
"I've read your book about hunting snow leopards in Tibet, you
see," explained the man. "I am General Zaroff."
Rainsford's first impression was that the man was singularly
handsome; his second was that there was an original, almost bizarre
quality about the general's face. He was a tall man past middle
age, for his hair was a vivid white; but his thick eyebrows and
pointed military mustache were as black as the night from which
Rainsford had come. His eyes, too, were black and very bright. He
had high cheekbones, a sharpcut nose, a spare, dark face—the face
of a man used to giving orders, the face of an aristocrat. Turning
to the giant in uniform, the general made a sign. The giant put
away his pistol, saluted, withdrew.
"Ivan is a
