“His hair was short and parted accurately in the middle, and he had all the look of an American person who would be likely to begin his signature with an initial, and spell his middle name out.”

“Uncle Pumblechook: a large hard-breathing middle-aged slow man, with a mouth like a fish, dull staring eyes, and sandy hair standing upright on his head, so that he looked as if he had just been all but choked, and had that moment come to.”

“So what is your middle name?""O. That's my middle initial.""Hmmm. It's probably something hideous like Orville, that would be so funny...Oh...it's not really...Orville. Is it?"He nods."Nooooooo!"He nods again."I'm so sorry. I can't believe that. It's not hideous...but really? Why would your mama do that to you? I mean-" I give up because now he's wiping his eyes and it really is too funny.”

“In the middle of his rapid-fire dictatioin he said softly, without pausing, "When the sun is on your hair, it shines like spun gold," and launched back into his letter. Lauren, who had inadvertently taken half of the compliment down in shorthand, gave him a killing glance, and he chuckled.”

“He would know a number of grown women in his life who did not possess even a small portion of the grace his middle sister owned at the age of fourteen.”

“When we found each other, I was very flabbergasted by his appearance. This is an American? I thought. And also, This is a Jew? He was severely short. He wore spectacles and had diminutive hairs which were not split anywhere, but rested on his head like a Shapka. (If i were like Father, I might even have dubbed him Shapka.) He did not appear like either the Americans I had witnessed in magazines, with yellow hairs and muscles, or the Jews from history books, with no hair and prominent bones. He was wearing nor blue jeans nor the uniform. In truth, he did not look like anything special at all. I was underwhelmed to the maximum.”