"I do not at all expect him." "Poor Hector used to come, rain, snow, or fine.

But, then, of course, he was a sailor.

It was nothing to him.

I hope that Raffles is not ill." "He was quite well when I saw him this morning," answered her brother, and they relapsed into silence, while the rain pattered against the windows, and the wind screamed amid the branches of the elms outside.
Old McIntyre had sat in the corner most of the day biting his nails and glowering into the fire, with a brooding, malignant expression upon his wrinkled features.

Contrary to his usual habits, he did not go to the village inn, but shuffled off early to bed without a word to his children.