Looking out for a king and queen, and seeing only a middle-aged soldier and a rather young lady, I felt half cheated, half pleased.
Well do I recall that King--a man of fifty, a little bowed, a little grey: there was no face in all that assembly which resembled his.

I had never read, never been told anything of his nature or his habits; and at first the strong hieroglyphics graven as with iron stylet on his brow, round his eyes, beside his mouth, puzzled and baffled instinct.
Ere long, however, if I did not know, at least I felt, the meaning of those characters written without hand.

There sat a silent sufferer--a nervous, melancholy man.

Those eyes had looked on the visits of a certain ghost--had long waited the comings and goings of that strangest spectre, Hypochondria.

Perhaps he saw her now on that stage, over against him, amidst all that brilliant throng.