They are heroes; they are saints.

Now and then they may perhaps steal a spoon or two; they may beat a wife or two with the poker.

But they are saints all the same; they are angels; they are robed in white; they are clad with wings and haloes--at any rate compared to that man." "Which man ?" I cried again, and then my eye caught the figure at which Basil's bull's eyes were glaring.
He was a slim, smooth person, passing very quickly among the quickly passing crowd, but though there was nothing about him sufficient to attract a startled notice, there was quite enough to demand a curious consideration when once that notice was attracted.

He wore a black top-hat, but there was enough in it of those strange curves whereby the decadent artist of the eighties tried to turn the top-hat into something as rhythmic as an Etruscan vase.

His hair, which was largely grey, was curled with the instinct of one who appreciated the gradual beauty of grey and silver.