But I must acknowledge there was something truly corpsy in the solemnity with which he would “lay out” a clean shirt.

“Poor thing! poor thing!” says Briggs (who was thinking of twenty-four years back, and that hectic young writing-master whose lock of yellow hair, and whose letters, beautiful in their illegibility, she cherished in her old desk upstairs).

It's like when you were in high school, hanging out with your friends and tooling around in your parents' jalopy.

They had parkoured seven roofs, clambered down a mango tree, and crossed over the bridge in the back of a donkey cart, unnoticed even by the driver.