"You've something of his cue movement--something of his infernal facility and touch.

Hasn't he, Fleetwood ?" "I wish Siward were back here," said Fleetwood thoughtfully, returning his cue to his own rack.

"I wonder what he does with himself--where he keeps himself all the while?
What the devil is there for a man to do, if he doesn't do anything?
He's not going out anywhere since his mother's death; he has no clubs to go to, I understand.

What does he do--go to his office and come back, and sit in that shabby old brick house all day and blink at the bum portraits of his bum and distinguished ancestors?
Do you know what he does with himself ?" to O'Hara.
"I don't even know where he lives," observed O'Hara, resuming his coat.
"He's given up his rooms, I understand." "What?
Don't know the old Siward house ?" "Oh! does he live there now?
Of course; I forgot about his mother.

He had apartments last year, you remember.