His complexion was burnt to a brick-colour by the vicissitudes of climate, to which it had been subjected; and his face, which at the distance of a yard or two seemed hale and smooth, appeared, when closely examined, to be seamed with a million of wrinkles, crossing each other in every direction possible, but as fine as if drawn by the point of a very small needle.[I-20] His dress was a blue coat and buff waistcoat, half boots remarkably well blacked, and a silk handkerchief tied with military precision.

The only antiquated part of his dress was a cocked hat of equilateral dimensions, in the button-hole of which he wore a very small cockade.

Mrs.Dods, accustomed to judge of persons by their first appearance, said, that in the three steps which he made from the door to the tea-table, she recognised, without the possibility of mistake, the gait of a person who was well to pass in the world; "and that," she added with a wink, "is what we victuallers are seldom deceived in.

If a gold-laced waistcoat has an empty pouch, the plain swan's-down will be the brawer of the twa." "A drizzling morning, good madam," said Mr.Touchwood, as with a view of sounding what sort of company he had got into.
"A fine saft morning for the crap, sir," answered Mrs.Dods, with equal solemnity.
"Right, my good madam; _soft_ is the very word, though it has been some time since I heard it.

I have cast a double hank about the round world since I last heard of a soft[I-21] morning." "You will be from these parts, then ?" said the writer, ingeniously putting a case, which, he hoped, would induce the stranger to explain himself.