Well! it's a surprise to me to find her--" he waited, and calculated again, "to find her grown up to be seventeen years old." To Ovid's ears, there was an inhuman indifference in his tone as he said this, which it was impossible not to resent, by looks, if not in words.
Benjulia noticed the impression that he had produced, without in the least understanding it.

"Your nervous system's in a nasty state," he remarked; "you had better take care of yourself.

I'll go and look at the monkey." His face was like the face of the impenetrable sphinx; his deep bass voice droned placidly.

Ovid's anger had passed by him like the passing of the summer air.

"Good-bye!" he said; "and take care of those nasty nerves.