With her elbows on the marble table, the glass held in both hands, she drinks sensuously, in little sips.
And I, Marcus Ordeyne, sit by watching her, a most contented philosopher of forty.

A dingo dog could not be so contented.

That young fellow, I unhesitatingly assert, must be the most brainless of his type.

I suffer fools gladly, as a general rule, but if I see much of this one I shall do him some injury.
After dejeuner we strolled to the top of the west cliff and lay on the thick dry grass.

The earth has never known a more perfect afternoon.