He could think only of that terrifying weakness, that significant garrulousness.
When Vagen was out of the way, Charles repeated: "I'm going this afternoon." His listless eyes were gazing vacantly at the carved rosewood ceiling.

His hands--the hands of a corpse--looked horribly like sheathed, crumpled claws in the gold silk cuffs of his dark-blue dressing gown.

His nose, protruding from his sunken cheeks, seemed not like a huge beak, but indeed a beak.
"But Janet--" began Mrs.Whitney, thinking as she spoke that he surely would "not be spared to us much longer." "Janet can follow--or stay here--or--I don't care what she does," droned Whitney.

"Do you suppose I'm thinking about anybody but myself now?
Would you, if you were in my fix.

I should say," he amended cynically, "_will_ you, when you're in my fix ?" "Charles!" exclaimed Matilda.
Whitney's smile checked her.