The Colonel, with his hands back in his trouser-pockets, tried to whistle out of his dry lips.
Belmont folded his arms and leaned against a rock, with a sulky frown upon his lowering face.

So strangely do our minds act that his three successive misses, and the tarnish to his reputation as a marksman, was troubling him more than his impending fate.

Cecil Brown stood erect, and plucked nervously at the up-turned points of his little prim moustache.

Monsieur Fardet groaned over his wounded wrist.
Mr.Stephens, in sombre impotence, shook his head slowly, the living embodiment of prosaic law and order.

Mr.Stuart stood, his umbrella still over him, with no expression upon his heavy face, or in his staring brown eyes.