Being of independent and even of abundant means, the Clarendons had for many years stuck to their old Manhattan mansion in East Nineteenth Street, whose ghosts must have looked sorely askance at the bizarrerie of Surama and the Thibetans.

Several days passed by, and to all appearance we had quite forgotten our poor old servitor, – so heartless in remembrance is weak humanity to its nearest and dearest, – when, in course of time, it got to be New Year's eve, and we were sitting in our study, awaiting the cook's preparations for dinner, when suddenly we heard a noise as of much tramping.

Strether didn't, as he talked, absolutely follow himself; he only knew he was clutching his thread and that he held it, from moment to moment, a little tighter; his mere uninterruptedness, for five minutes, helped him to do that.

For tis the ſport to haue the enginer / Hoiſt with his ovvne petar, an't ſhall goe hard / But I vvill delue one yeard belovve their mines, / And blovve them at the Moone: […] For it's amusing to have the engineer / Hoisted into the sky with his own explosive, and if I'm lucky / I will dig one yard below their mines, / And blow them towards the Moon: […]