"Pretty girl! They've a nice place, the, Dennants.

D' ye know, you're a lucky feller!" The speaker was an old baronet, with small eyes, a dusky, ruddy face, and peculiar hail-fellow-well-met expression, at once morose and sly.
He was always hard up, but being a man of enterprise knew all the best people, as well as all the worst, so that he dined out every night.
"You're a lucky feller," he repeated; "he's got some deuced good shootin', Dennant! They come too high for me, though; never touched a feather last time I shot there.

She's a pretty girl.

You 're a lucky feller!" "I know that," said Shelton humbly.
"Wish I were in your shoes.

Who was that sittin' on the other side of you?
I'm so dashed short-sighted.