Driven to Bay, Volume I by Florence Marryat

He was one of those wonderful anomalies in coat and trousers, at which we gaze curiously, as we speculate to which sex they belong. He had light flaxen hair, perceptibly crimped with hot irons, pale blue eyes, and small, dolly features. The suspicion of a whitey-brown moustache on his upper lip was like the down on an apple-tart. His hands were fat, and short, and white -- almost dimpled -- and laden with women's rings. He was dressed in a tight check suit, a brown felt hat, gaiters, and patent-leather shoes. In his hand he carried a small Malacca cane, which he usually swung backwards and forwards, while he stood with his legs well apart; an eyeglass was stuck with so painful an effort into his eye that it distorted his features; and he wore his hat a little to one side, which was intended to give him a rakish appearance. A gold chain of great length and thickness was stretched across his waistcoat. At one end of it dangled his keys, at the other a button-hook. From his breast-pocket peeped out a pink silk handkerchief, placed there for ornament rather than use, and encircling his throat was a white collar, so high and so well starched that he was frequently obliged to place his fingers between the linen and the skin to prevent his throttling.

Vernon Blythe looked down at this mannikin with supreme contempt, not unmixed with amusement.