Large ladies, their dresses tucked up over their knees, sucked oranges.

Country farmers with huge knobbly looking sticks were there, and even some sailors, on their way probably to Drymouth.
He recognised the lady who kept charge of the small Orange Street post-office, and waved to her with delighted excitement.

The atmosphere was thick with gas and oranges, and I'm afraid that Uncle Samuel must have suffered a great deal.

I can only put it on record that he, the most selfish of human beings, never breathed a word of complaint.
They were all packed very closely together up there in the gallery, where seventy years before an orchestra straight from Jane Austen's novels had played to the dancing of the contemporaries of Elizabeth Bennett, Emma Woodhouse, and the dear lady of "Persuasion." Another thirty-two years and that same gallery would be listening to recruiting appeals and echoing the drums and fifes of a martial band.

The best times are always the old times.