His white cuffs, stowed inside his hat, were committed to the care of Mrs.
Beecher.

He rolled his gray shirtsleeves up to the elbow, and unbuttoned his waistcoat.
'Now,' he said, 'I'm ready.

If I'm not hurried, I'll pull along all day.
But what about you, Conneally?
You're not accustomed to this sort of thing ?' But Hyacinth for once was self-confident.

He might be a poor singer and a contemptible tennis player, but he knew that nothing which had to do with boats could come amiss to him.

He looked across the sparkling water of the lake.
'I'll go on as long as you like.