He could not help thinking that he was of a little finer clay than Skinner, or Wilkins, or Colonel Guthrie.

Kilo considered the doctor one of her peculiar institutions; as Kilo took the ever-joking Toole seriously, so she took the ever serious doctor good-naturedly, but not too seriously.

He was "jist Doc Weaver," and Kilo reserved the right to laugh at him in private, and to brag about him to strangers, and they were apt to "joke" him about his beliefs.
As he was sensitive and dreaded the rough raillery of his neighbors, he kept his enthusiasms to himself.

He was like an overcharged bottle of soda water.
Eliph' and the doctor were discussing Christian Science and faith cures generally, and when the doctor's wife passed to and fro, catching a phrase now and then, a look of deep anxiety spread over her face, until, as she brushed the crumbs from the red tablecloth, her shoulders seemed to droop in dejection.
When she smoothed the cloth and set the lamp on the mat in the center the doctor glanced at his watch and arose.

He buttoned his frock coat over his breast (it was the only frock coat in Kilo), and drew on his driving gloves, holding his hands on a level with his chin.