She had on--not the grey gown, but a white one, worked in delicate muslin.

A bunch of those small pinky-white roses that grew in such clusters about our parlour window nestled, almost as if they were still growing, in her fair maiden bosom.
She apologized for little Jack's having "stolen" them from our domains for her--lucky Jack! and received some brief and rather incoherent answer from John about being "quite welcome." He sat opposite her--I by her side--she had placed me there.

It struck me as strange, that though her manner to us both was thoroughly frank and kind, it was a shade more frank, more kind, to me than to him.
Also, I noted, that while she chatted gaily with me, John almost entirely confined his talk to her father.
But the young lady listened--ay, undoubtedly she listened--to every word that was said.

I did not wonder at it: when his tongue was once unloosed few people could talk better than John Halifax.

Not that he was one of your showy conversationalists; language was with him neither a science, an art, nor an accomplishment, but a mere vehicle for thought; the garb, always chosen as simplest and fittest, in which his ideas were clothed.