In the back garret—a sickly room, with a turned up bedstead in it, so hastily and recently turned up that the blankets were boiling over, as it were, and keeping the lid open—a half finished breakfast of coffee and toast, for two persons, was jumbled down anyhow on a rickety table—Book 1, chap. ix.
"Is it," said Barnwell Junior, taking heed of his visitor's brown face, "anything—about—tonnage—or that sort of thing?"—Book 1, chap. x.
One man, slowly moving on towards Chalons, was the only visible figure on the landscape. Cain might have looked as lonely and avoided—Book 1, chap. xi.
And stooping down to pinch the cheek of another young child who was sitting on the floor, staring at him, asked Mrs. Plornish how old that fine boy was? "Four year, just turned, sir," said Mrs. Plornish. "He's a fine little fellow, a'int he, sir, but this one is rather sickly." She tenderly hushed the baby in her arms as she said it—Book 1, chap. xi.
