Sohlberg was interesting as an artistic type or figure--quite like a character in a Japanese print might be.
He greeted him pleasantly.
"And Mrs.Sohlberg, I suppose," he remarked, feelingly, catching a quick suggestion of the rhythm and sufficiency and naive taste that went with her.

She was in simple white and blue--small blue ribbons threaded above lacy flounces in the skin.

Her arms and throat were deliciously soft and bare.

Her eyes were quick, and yet soft and babyish--petted eyes.
"You know," she said to him, with a peculiar rounded formation of the mouth, which was a characteristic of her when she talked--a pretty, pouty mouth, "I thought we would never get heah at all.

There was a fire"-- she pronounced it fy-yah--"at Twelfth Street" (the Twelfth was Twalfth in her mouth) "and the engines were all about there.