The friends walk in groups of two or more abreast, arms locked, in an impossibly slow pace. The couples emerge on Sundays, mooching around, holding hands, erratically zig-zagging in the pavement, or abruptly stopping.
General MacArthur stood with his back to the mantelpiece. He pulled at his little white moustache. That had been a damned good dinner! His spirits were rising. Lombard turned over the pages of Punch that lay with other papers on a table by the wall. Rogers went round with the coffee tray. The coffee was good, really black and very hot.
The whole party had dined well. They were satisfied with themselves and with life.
– From “And then there were none”, by Agatha Christie.