Couldn't you--oh!--I loathe hurting you, dear Jaffery--but it's all the world, all eternity to me--couldn't you get one of Adrian's colleagues--one of the famous people"-- she rattled off a few names--"to look through the proofs and revise them--just in honour of Adrian's memory?
Couldn't you, dear Jaffery ?" She tugged convulsively at the poor old giant's coat.

"You're one of the best and noblest men who ever lived or I couldn't say this to you.

But you understand, don't you ?" Jaffery's ruddy face turned as white as chalk.

She might have slapped it physically and it would have worn the same dazed, paralysed lack of expression.
"My life," said he, in a queer toned voice, that wasn't Jaffery's at all, "my life is only an expression of your wishes.

I'll do as you say." "It's for Adrian's sake, dear Jaffery," said Doria.
Jaffery passed his great glazed hand over his stricken face, from the roots of his hair to the point of his beard, and seemed to wipe therefrom all traces of day-infesting cares, revealing the sunny Reubens-like features that we all loved.
"But apart from my amateur joining of the flats, you think the book's worthy of Adrian ?" "Oh, I do," she cried passionately.