Prowling About The Rooms, Sitting Down, Getting

Old Mr. Rarx Was Not A Pleasant Man To Look At, Nor Yet To Talk To, Or To Be With, For No One Could Help Seeing That He Was A Sordid And Selfish Character, And That He Had Warped Further And Further Out Of The Straight With Time.

Château And Hut, Stone Face And Dangling Figure, The Red Stain On The Stone Floor, And The Pure Water In The Village Well-thousands Of Acres Of Land-a Whole Province Of France-all France Itself-lay Under The Night Sky, Concentrated Into A Faint Hairbreadth Line. So Does A Whole World, With All Its Greatnesses And Littlenesses, Lie In A Twinkling Star.

Poetry's Unnat'ral; No Man Ever Talked Poetry 'cept A Beadle On Boxin' Day, Or Warren's Blackin' Or Rowland's Oil, Or Some O' Them Low Fellows; Never You Let Yourself Down To Talk Poetry, My Boy.

... I Have Read In Your Face, As Plain As If It Was A Book, That But For Some Trouble And Sorrow We Should Never Know Half The Good There Is About Us.

After Tea, We Discussed A Variety Of Topics Before The Fire; And Mrs. Micawber Was Good Enough To Sing Us (in A Small, Thin, Flat Voice, Which I Remembered To Have Considered, When I First Knew Her, The Very Table-beer Of Acoustics) The Favourite Ballads Of "the Dashing White Sergeant", And "little Tafflin".