His battered hat, browned by the suns of every clime, was pulled forward over his wrinkled face.

His arched back was bent under an old cloak, wrapped closely round him, notwithstanding the heat.

It would have been difficult, in this miserable dress, to judge of either his size or face.
Near him was the Tsigane, Sangarre, a woman about thirty years old.

She was tall and well made, with olive complexion, magnificent eyes, and golden hair.
Many of the young dancers were remarkably pretty, all possessing the clear-cut features of their race.

These Tsiganes are generally very attractive, and more than one of the great Russian nobles, who try to vie with the English in eccentricity, has not hesitated to choose his wife from among these gypsy girls.