Upon this particular Whipple they had looked with especial awe.
Other known members of the tribe were inhumanly old and gray and withered, not creatures with whom the most daring fancy could picture the Cowan twins sustaining any sane human relationship.

But this one was young and moderately understandable.

Observed from across the room of the Methodist Sunday-school, she was undoubtedly human like them; but always so befurbished with rare and shining garments, with glistening silks and costly velvets and laces, with bonnets of pink rosebuds and gloves of kid, that the thought of any secular relationship had been preposterous.

Yet she was young, an animal of their own age, whose ways could be comprehended.
She halted her mad flight when she discovered them, then turned to survey the way she had come.

She was panting.