They seemed rather uninterested
. They had, in truth, seen all this before; the only thing that was new to them being Harker's testimony.
But she did not want to appear unamiable and uninterested
, so she had brought forth newspapers, which she spread upon the floor of the gallery, and under Madame Ratignolle's directions she had cut a pattern of the impervious garment.
and perplexed faces of the marshals showed that they were puzzled as to what Balashev's tone suggested.
I sought out the few friends I knew who might be able to get me work; but they were either uninterested
or unable to find anything for me.
She watched Nutty with a cold and uninterested
eye as he opened his mouth feebly, shut it again and reopened it; and then when it became apparent that these manoeuvres were about to result in speech, she left him and walked quickly down the drive again.
For instance, a gentleman may stake, say, five or ten louis d'or--seldom more, unless he is a very rich man, when he may stake, say, a thousand francs; but, he must do this simply for the love of the game itself--simply for sport, simply in order to observe the process of winning or of losing, and, above all things, as a man who remains quite uninterested
in the possibility of his issuing a winner.
And the man was uninterested
, pulling stolidly away at his pipe, in the darkness following upon the third match.
Archibald Craven, who lived at Misselthwaite Manor, she looked so stony and stubbornly uninterested
that they did not know what to think about her.
Other people uninterested
in the sermon found relief in the beetle, and they eyed it too.
In the presence of two women scrutinizing her as if they suspected her of being there with no good purpose, a male passenger admiring her a little further off, her maid reading Trefusis's newspapers just out of earshot, an uninterested
country gentleman looking glumly out of window, a city man preoccupied with the "Economist," and a polite lady who refrained from staring but not from observing, she felt that she must not make a scene; yet she knew he had not come there to hold an ordinary conversation.
Tulkinghorn in his methodical, subdued, uninterested
way, "first, whether you have any of Captain Hawdon's writing?"
Is it due to excess of poetry or of stupidity that we are never weary of describing what King James called a woman's "makdom and her fairnesse," never weary of listening to the twanging of the old Troubadour strings, and are comparatively uninterested
in that other kind of "makdom and fairnesse" which must be wooed with industrious thought and patient renunciation of small desires?