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"Good bye to you, Sergeant Tanner," said one of the women in the boat. "Nancy Corbett, by all that's wonderful!" cried the sergeant. "I told you so, sergeant you'll never lose the name of lady-killer." "Pretty lady-killing," muttered the sergeant, turning away in a rage.
'So much the better, Waggle, my young friend, I exclaimed. 'Better for the sake of womankind that this dangerous dog should leave off lady-killing this Blue-Beard give up practice. Or, better rather for his own sake.
The back and shoulders of a man came between Mrs. Yeobright's eyes and the fire. Wildeve, whose form it was, immediately turned, arose, and advanced to meet his visitors. He was quite a young man, and of the two properties, form and motion, the latter first attracted the eye in him. The grace of his movement was singular: it was the pantomimic expression of a lady-killing career.
So now Valerie, on her own account, took part with Lisbeth in her hatred of Hortense. Women cling to a lover that another woman is fighting for, just as much as men do to women round whom many coxcombs are buzzing. Thus any reflections a propos to Madame Marneffe are equally applicable to any lady-killing rake; he is, in fact, a sort of male courtesan.
Quilp, the dwarf, and a far finer specimen of a scoundrel by the by, in every respect, than that poor stage villain Monks; Sampson Brass and his legal sister Sally, a goodly pair; Kit, golden-hearted and plain of body, who so barely escapes from the plot laid by the afore-mentioned worthies to prove him a thief; Chuckster, most lady-killing of notaries' clerks; Mrs.
Would he even understand if his father should explain it to him? . . . It was useless to expect anything from this lady-killing, dancing clown, from this fellow of senseless bravado, who was constantly exposing his life in duels in order to satisfy a silly sense of honor.
He has a big nose, thick lips, heavy eyebrows, an intelligent and severe eye, and grey, ill-combed hair. Changarnier looks like an old academician, just as Soult looks like an old archbishop. Changarnier is sixty-four or sixty-five years old, and tall and thin. He has a gentle voice, a graceful and formal air, a chestnut wig like M. Pasquier's, and a lady-killing smile like M. Brifaut's.
"Where is he?" It was young Barbee who answered, Barbee of the innocent blue eyes. "In the ranch-house, Miss Terry," he said. And he came forward, patting his hair into place, hitching at his belt, smiling at her after his most successful lady-killing fashion. "Sure I won't do?" "You?" Terry laughed. "When I'm looking for a man I'm not going to stop for a boy, Barbee dear!"
'He seemed rather carried away, I thought. There's a fascination about Aylmer. There are so many things he's not, said Vincy. 'Tell me some of them. 'Well, for one thing, he's not fatuous, though he's so good-looking. He's not a lady-killing sort of person or anything else tedious. She was delighted at this especially.
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