As I do none of these things, I am convinced they regard me as a poor sort of creature.

When they hand me a cup of tea I almost expect them to pat me on the head and say, "Good dog!" I am long, lean, stooping, hatchet-faced, hawknosed, near-sighted.

I have not the breezy air of the jolly young stockbrokers they are in the habit of meeting.
They rather alarm me.

Moreover, they have managed to rear a colossal pile of wholly incorrect information on every subject under the sun, and are addicted to letting chunks of it fall about one's ears.

This stuns me, rendering conversation difficult.
As I had not seen Dora since her return from Rome, where she had spent the early spring, I asked, in some trepidation, for her impressions.
Before I could collect myself, I was listening to a lecture on St.
Peter's.