He is a penniless scamp and looks as though he drank.

He paints his whiskers too, which I don't like; and, being forty, tries to look like twenty-five.
Otherwise he is agreeable enough, and I rather approve of my aunt's taste in preferring him.
But my lover has solid attractions, and allures me on by a description of the fat cattle which he sends to market.
He is a man of substance, and should I ever become Mrs Cheesacre, I have reason to think that I shall not be left in want.

We went up to his place on a visit the other day.
Oileymead is the name of my future home;--not so pretty as Nethercoats, is it?
And we had such a time there! We reached the place at ten and left it at four, and he managed to give us three meals.

I'm sure we had before our eyes at different times every bit of china, delf, glass, and plate in the establishment.

He made us go into the cellar, and told us how much wine he had got there, and how much beer.