“'Ere,” said Mr. Rumbold, suddenly fierce and shouting and marking his point with gesticulated jampots, “you go indoors. I don't want no row with you, and I don't want you to row with me. […]

As it turned out, the itinerary was disconcertingly illogical, involving criss-crossing America in anything but a straight line.

The schoolmarm came to an abrupt stop in her arithmetic quizzing, her face set into a pruny scowl that looked to be permanent.

Tolstoyan gloom, Dostoievskan horror, and general Russian hopelessness are the natural outcome of the over-intellectualized misery and morbidity of nineteenth-century Russians, but to import this joyless atmosphere into English literature is a tragic affection.