He could not think it painting, which had been the means of raising him out of sleep to the present happy waking. Nor was it the lack of public recognition which had bedrowsed him, since he had never fairly sought it […]

Before he died her father had run a nursery just outside the town. He loved trees so much he'd even named his two daughters and one son after them: Willow, Ashley and Oak.

The world there was at the same time, by an odd extension or intensification, the local present fact, to my small imagination, of the Second Empire, which was (for my notified consciousness) new and queer and perhaps even wrong, but on the spot so amply radiant and elegant that it took to itself, took under its protection with a splendour of insolence, the state and ancientry of the whole scene, profiting thus, to one's dim historic vision, confusedly though it might be, by the unparalleled luxury and variety of its heritage.

Why, is it not provoking, when I thought we were coming to the prettiest distress imaginable, to find myself made a mere Smithfield bargain of at last?