He had a habit of scratching his forehead with one finger, which denoted thought.
"Now, what are we to do ?" he muttered.

"Can't bury the poor chap and say nothing about it.

I wonder where his passport is?
We have here a tragedy." He turned to the horse, which was grazing hurriedly.
"My friend of the four legs," he said, "it is a thousand pities that you are dumb." Paul was still examining the dead man with that callousness which denotes one who, for love or convenience, has become a doctor.

He was a doctor--an amateur.

He was a Caius man.
Steinmetz looked down at him with a little laugh.