Here Mr.
Hilbery sat editing his review, or placing together documents by means of which it could be proved that Shelley had written "of" instead of "and," or that the inn in which Byron had slept was called the "Nag's Head" and not the "Turkish Knight," or that the Christian name of Keats's uncle had been John rather than Richard, for he knew more minute details about these poets than any man in England, probably, and was preparing an edition of Shelley which scrupulously observed the poet's system of punctuation.

He saw the humor of these researches, but that did not prevent him from carrying them out with the utmost scrupulosity.
He was lying back comfortably in a deep arm-chair smoking a cigar, and ruminating the fruitful question as to whether Coleridge had wished to marry Dorothy Wordsworth, and what, if he had done so, would have been the consequences to him in particular, and to literature in general.
When Katharine came in he reflected that he knew what she had come for, and he made a pencil note before he spoke to her.

Having done this, he saw that she was reading, and he watched her for a moment without saying anything.

She was reading "Isabella and the Pot of Basil," and her mind was full of the Italian hills and the blue daylight, and the hedges set with little rosettes of red and white roses.

Feeling that her father waited for her, she sighed and said, shutting her book: "I've had a letter from Aunt Celia about Cyril, father....