One evening (a week ago) Olga said quietly that she was going to be married.
Mr.Kite was summoned to Hammersmith.

A lank, loose-limbed, indolent-looking man of thirty or so, with a long, thin face, tangled hair, gentle eyes.

The clothes he wore were decent, but suggested the idea that they had been purchased at second-hand; they did not fit him well; perhaps he was the kind of man whose clothes never do fit.

Unless Mrs.Hannaford was mistaken, his breath wafted an alcoholic odour; but Mr.Kite had every appearance of present sobriety.

He seemed chronically tired; sat down with a little sigh of satisfaction; stretched his legs, and let his arms fall full length.