Dolores […] kept the house clean with the orderliness of a coffin. Artificial flowers reposed waxily in glass vases.

They're wonderful hoverers, though, and they'll remain stationary in the air, wing-tips vibrating, till they've marked their prey[.]

They started together, but the drummer came in late.

Francesca followed, reluctant enough in her secret; for though she would not have admitted it even to herself, she did shrink from the infliction of the inane solemnities with which her father garnished his discourse—to say nothing of the ungracious reflections which so often glanced at herself.