The Rain And Hail Pattered Against The

Over The Whole, A Young Lady Presided, Whose Gloomy Haughtiness As She Surveyed The Street, Announced A Deep-seated Grievance Against Society, And An Implacable Determination To Be Avenged.

"it Wasn't The Wine," Murmured Mr. Snodgrass, In A Broken Voice. "it Was The Salmon."

I Don't Feel Any Vulgar Gratitude To You[for Helping Me]. I Almost Feel As If You Ought To Be Grateful To Me, For Giving You The Opportunity Of Enjoying The Luxury Of Generosity. . . I May Have Come Into The World Expressly For The Purpose Of Increasing Your Stock Of Happiness. I May Have Been Born To Be A Benefactor To You, By Giving You An Opportunity Of Assisting Me.

As I Never Saw My Father Or My Mother, And Never Saw Any Likeness Of Either Of Them (for Their Days Were Long Before The Days Of Photographs), My First Fancies Regarding What They Were Like, Were Unreasonably Derived From Their Tombstones. The Shape Of The Letters On My Father's, Gave Me An Odd Idea That He Was A Square, Stout, Dark Man, With Curly Black Hair. From The Character And Turn Of The Inscription, "also Georgiana Wife Of The Above", I Drew A Childish Conclusion That My Mother Was Freckled And Sickly.

There Is No Such Passion In Human Nature, As The Passion For Gravy Among Commercial Gentlemen.