Mr.Skinner, with his small bowler hat on the back of his head, a fresh cigar in the corner of his mouth, and his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, strolled along Broadway with something akin to a smile parting his lips, and showing his yellow teeth.
"Darned old fool," he muttered.

"To marry a slap-up handsome woman like that, and then pretend not to know what it means when she bolts.

Guess I'll spoil his supper to-night." Mr.Sabin, however, was recovering his spirits.

He, too, was leaning back in the corner of his carriage with a faint smile brightening his hard, stern face.

But, unlike Mr.Skinner, he did not talk to himself..