Rowland lit a cigar, and Roderick refused one with a grimace of extravagant disgust.

He thought them vile things; he did n't see how decent people could tolerate them.

Rowland was amused, and wondered what it was that made this ill-mannered speech seem perfectly inoffensive on Roderick's lips.

He belonged to the race of mortals, to be pitied or envied according as we view the matter, who are not held to a strict account for their aggressions.

Looking at him as he lay stretched in the shade, Rowland vaguely likened him to some beautiful, supple, restless, bright-eyed animal, whose motions should have no deeper warrant than the tremulous delicacy of its structure, and be graceful even when they were most inconvenient.