He examined March, with a certain mixture of respect and contempt, upon the nature of the literary life, and how it differed from the life of a journalist.

He asked if he thought Burnamy would amount to anything as a literary man; he so far assented to March's faith in him as to say, "He's smart." He told of leaving his daughters in school at Wurzburg; and upon the whole he moved March with a sense of his pathetic loneliness without moving his liking, as he passed lumberingly on, dangling his cup.
March gave his own cup to the little maid at his spring, and while she gave it to a second, who dipped it and handed it to a third for its return to him, he heard an unmistakable fellow-countryman saying good-, morning to them all in English.

"Are you going to teach them United States ?" he asked of a face with which he knew such an appeal would not fail.
"Well," the man admitted, "I try to teach them that much.

They like it.
You are an American?
I am glad of it.

I have 'most lost the use of my lungs, here.