Yes, I was right: it was Mr. Brocklehurst, buttoned up in a surtout, and looking longer, narrower, and more rigid than ever.

After I cut the tubing, I found that I had slightly egged it in the vise.

And this is the moment , when Englishism pure and simple , which with all its fine qualities managed always to make itself singularly unattractive , is losing that imperturbable faith in its untransformed self

That in the mean time, her household affairs, and the care of her children, will be wholly laid aside; her toilet will be crowded with all the under-wits, where the conversation will pass in criticising on the last play or poem that comes out […]