He has very few friends in the city." "He looks like a Spaniard," said Mr.Bennet, slowly, dwelling upon every word.

"How rich that lustrous tropical complexion is! Its duskiness is mysterious.

The young man's eyes are like summer moonlight." Mr.Bennet's own eyes half closed as he spoke, as if he were dreaming of gorgeous summer nights and the murmur of distant music.
Gabriel and his mother were instinctively silent.

The click of her needle was the only sound.
"Oh yes, yes--that is--I mean, my dear, he does come here very often.

I do go off on such foolish fancies!" remarked Mr.Bennet, at length.
"He comes very often when you are not at home, Gabriel," said Mrs.
Bennet, after a kind glance at her husband, and still sewing.
"Yes, mother." "Then it isn't only to see you ?" "No, mother." "And often when your father and I return from an evening stroll in the streets we find him here." "Yes, mother." "It isn't to see us altogether, then ?" "No, mother." Mrs.Bennet turned her work, and in so doing glanced for a moment at her son.