His hair was brown.

His hands were brown.

His clothes were brown, and he was smoking what looked like a brown clay pipe.
Hilary regained her self-possession almost at once.

The diffidence of the voice gave her assurance.
"I thought my cousin was there," she explained.

"You are Dick's friend, I think ?" The man on the bank smiled an affirmative, and Hilary remarked to herself that he had splendid teeth.
"I am Dick's friend," he said, speaking slowly, as if learning the lesson from her.