His coat of black broad-cloth that had been tightly packed in his valise, was yet wrinkled and creased; his trousers were strapped under his high boots.
As he spoke, he stroked the bridge of his hawklike nose with his bent forefinger.
Leaning-back in his chair, he watched his two sons with secret delight.
To his eye, both were perfect specimens of their class, intelligent, well-looking, resourceful.

He was intensely proud of them.

He was never happier, never more nearly jovial, never more erect, more military, more alert, and buoyant than when in the company of his two sons.

He honestly believed that no finer examples of young manhood existed throughout the entire nation.
"I think we should win in this court," Harran observed, watching the bubbles break in his glass.

"The investigation has been much more complete than in the Visalia trial.