A lean, hard, middle-aged man, buttoned up tight in a black frock-coat, received me, holding my written introduction open in his hand.

He had a ruddy complexion not commonly seen in Londoners, so far as my experience goes.

His iron-gray hair and whiskers (especially the whiskers) were in wonderfully fine order--as carefully oiled and combed as if he had just come out of a barber's shop.

I had been in the morning to the Zoological Gardens; his eyes, when he lifted them from the letter to me, reminded me of the eyes of the eagles--glassy and cruel.

I have a fault that I can't cure myself of.