In its little way it was of vast, far-reaching importance.
I want you to remember these things in order that you should understand the mental processes, or soul processes, or whatever you like, of Sir Anthony Fenimore.

Picture him.

The most unheroic little man you can imagine.

Clean-shaven, bullet-headed, close-cropped, his face ruddy and wrinkled like a withered apple, his eyes a misty blue, his big nose marked like a network of veins, his hands glazed and reddened, like his face, by wind and weather; standing, even under his mayoral robes, like a jockey.

Of course he had the undefinable air of breeding; no one could have mistaken his class.