Exercise in writing

by Elizabeth

Jacob walked—sauntered—into the sitting room, his head caught in a float of strange intangibles. He was a beautiful man—you could see it in the set of his chin—but no one could know him beyond an inch or two. His eyes, which were an uncanny shade of blue, were eternally fixed on a point just beyond your reach; and his sitting, his standing, his puffing on a cigarette—all were part of some great and anxious mystery. It was blossoming into an obsession, you felt—this desire to comprehend a man who was utterly beyond all understanding.