But he's not the real thing at all.
Not a bit.

Why, he might be anybody, our grocer, or the butcher, up there playing that violin.

His eyes are little and blue, and his hair is red and very short.

I wish she could hear _our_ violinist play! And there's another man that comes to the parties and teas;--oh, of course there are others, lots of them, married men with wives, and unmarried men with and without sisters.

But I mean another man specially.