The Countess narrowly examined Evan, whose steady advance in his profession both her sisters praised.
'Yes,' said the Countess, in a languid alien accent.

'He has something of his father's carriage--something.

Something of his delivery--his readiness.' It was a remarkable thing that these ladies thought no man on earth like their father, and always cited him as the example of a perfect gentleman, and yet they buried him with one mind, and each mounted guard over his sepulchre, to secure his ghost from an airing.
'He can walk, my dears, certainly, and talk--a little.

Tete-a-tete, I do not say.

I should think there he would be--a stick! All you English are.
But what sort of a bow has he got, I ask you?
How does he enter a room?
And, then his smile! his laugh! He laughs like a horse--absolutely! There's no music in his smile.