I remember that my first impression of him was that he was so completely beneath the domination of some idea or remembrance that, at that moment, no human being could touch him.

When I took Trenchard up to him I was so conscious of his remoteness that I was embarrassed and apologetic.
And if I was aware of Nikitin's remoteness I was equally conscious of Andrey Vassilievitch's proximity.

He was a little man of a round plump figure; he wore a little imperial and sharp, inquisitive moustaches; his hair was light brown and he was immensely proud of it.

In Petrograd he was always very smartly dressed.

He bought his clothes in London and his plump hands had a movement familiar to all his friends, a flicker of his hands to his coat, his waistcoat, his trousers, to brush off some imaginary speck of dust.