He was a two-and-sixty-year-old oddity.
In point of mien his irises were nut-brown, an immaculate and lavish shade which stimulated mystification, and his brows were niggardly furrowed. His temper was also observed to be a farrago of pliancy, insupportable uppishness, taciturnity, and sarcastic nonchalance.
“How should I be of assistance?” inquired the doctor with a gelid peacock blue drone, his eyes all the while stamped on the document where my particulars were perfunctorily scrawled, as though if he scrutinised any longer he would have figured out as much why in my drunken stupor I am fearless of cockroaches.
This was invitation enough.
For some time, and with much bitterness, I railed and lamented against my strawberry allergy; to even suffer under such a peculiar circumstance per se was flabbergasting, and yet that I should bleat of it so to an outlander, was still more strange.
“You must be rather singular by nature, I can assure you,” said he.