"You're a pair of Whittingtons, gents, without the cat, . . . My name is Tigg; how do you do?"—Chap. vii.
"I say—there's fowls to-morrow, not skinny ones. Oh no!"—Chap. ix.
"Do not repine, my friends," said Mr. Pecksniff, tenderly. "Do not weep for me. It is chronic"—Chap. ix.
"We sometimes venture to consider her rather a fine figure, sir. Speaking as an artist, I may perhaps be permitted to suggest, that its outline is graceful and correct"—Chap. x.
