He was low in the forehead, fat in the stomach, hoarse in the voice, and weak in the legs.
Both his eyes were bloodshot, and one was fixed in his head.

He smelled of spirits, and carried a toothpick in his mouth.

"How are you?
I've just done dinner," says he; and he lights a cigar, sits down with his legs crossed, and winks at me.
I tried at first to take the measure of him in a wheedling, confidential way; but it was no good.

I asked him, in a facetious, smiling manner, how he had got hold of the letter.

He only told me in answer that he had been in the confidential employment of the writer of it, and that he had always been famous since infancy for a sharp eye to his own interests.
I paid him some compliments; but he was not to be flattered.