Слово "portly". Англо-русский словарь Мюллера

His eyes were blue, his complexion rubicund, his figure almost portly and well-built, his body muscular, and his physical powers fully developed by the exercises of his younger days.

Natty old chips, shrewd portly fellows, Jews, trainers looking as if they had never been guilty of seeing a horse in their lives; tall, flapping, languid women, or brisk, loud-voiced women; young men with an air as if trying to take it seriously—two or three of them with only one arm.

He was a man of about fifty, tall, portly, and imposing, with a massive, strongly marked face and a commanding figure. He was dressed in a sombre yet rich style, in black frock-coat, shining hat, neat brown gaiters, and well-cut pearl-grey trousers. Yet his actions were in absurd contrast to the dignity of his dress and features, for he was running hard, with occasional little springs, such as a weary man gives who is little accustomed to set any tax upon his legs. As he ran he jerked his hands up and down, waggled his head, and writhed his face into the most extraordinary contortions.

            'Thirty-four,' said Kostoglotov. He smiled at him and stood aside.             Hadn't he done too much cackling himself today? Hadn't he perhaps said too much, said something he shouldn't have?             But the restless interviewer would not leave him. He hurried down the stairs after him, bending his portly frame forward, still talking and wheezing over Kostoglotov's shoulder: 'What do you think, comrade? If any tumour doesn't hurt, is it a good or a bad sign? What does it show?'             Tiresome, defenceless people.             'What do you do?' Kostoglotov stopped and asked him.             'I'm a lecturer.' A big-eared man with grey, sleek hair, he looked at Kostoglotov hopefully, as at a doctor.             'Lecturer in what? What subject?'             'Philosophy,' replied the bank manager, remembering his former self and regaining some of his bearing. Although he had shown a wry face all day, he had forgiven Kostoglotov his misplaced and clumsy quotations from the philosophers of the past. He wouldn't reproach him, he needed the suppliers' addresses.             'A lecturer, and it's your throat!' Kostoglotov shook his head from side to side. He had no regrets about not giving the suppliers' addresses out loud in the ward. By the standards of the community that for seven years had dragged him along like a slab of metal through a wire-drawing machine, only a stupid sucker would do a thing like that. Everyone would rush off and write to these suppliers, the prices would be inflated, and he wouldn't get his chaga. It was his duty, though, to tell a few decent people one by one. He'd already made up his mind to tell the geologist, even though they'd exchanged no more than ten words, because he liked the look of him and the way he'd spoken up in defence of cemeteries. And he'd tell Dyoma, except that Dyoma didn't have any money. (In fact Oleg didn't have any either, there was nothing for him to buy the chaga with.) And he would give it to Federau, or Sibgatov, his friends in distress. [Footnote: They all belonged to deported nationalities and were exiles like Kostoglotov. (Translators' note).].             They would all have to ask him one by one, though, and anyone who didn't ask would be left out. But this philosophy lecturer struck Oleg as a foolish fellow. What did he churn out in his lectures anyway? Perhaps he was just clouding people's brains? And what was the point of all his philosophy if he was so completely helpless in the face of his illness?... But what a coincidence - in the throat of all places!             'Write down the suppliers' address,' Kostoglotov commanded. 'But it's only for you!' The philosopher, in grateful haste, bent down to write.             After he had dictated it Oleg managed to tear himself away. He hurried to get in his walk before they locked the outer door.

A portly, perspiring middle-aged man came to Blaine's bedside.

At the Union Club, at this noontime luncheon, after talking with the portly, conservative, aggressive Arneel and the shrewd director of the stock-exchange, Cowperwood met a varied company of men ranging in age from thirty-five to sixty-five gathered about the board in a private dining-room of heavily carved black walnut, with pictures of elder citizens of Chicago on the walls and an attempt at artistry in stained glass in the windows.