Significantly, the Colonel had begun to make himself scarce: I could picture him tiptoeing like a marauder from the scene.
A Friend from England, ch. 7
In the half hour or so that I spent outside I seemed to see Oscar rising continually from the bed, his face grey, his arm flung out in warning, or in remonstrance.
Ibid., ch. 9
My last sight of him was of an untidy figure stumping off in the direction of Marble Arch. I saw his back, bent, silhouetted against the glow of a rapidly sinking sun.
Ibid., ch. 11
Yes, I think you love the world more as a painter. Painters have a healthy appetite for life.