I am subject--entirely through this miserable business--to fits of morbid appetite.

I want things at wrong times--breakfast in the middle of the night; dinner at four in the morning.

I want something now!" Mr.Finch stopped, horror-struck at his condition; pondering with his eyebrows fiercely knit, and his hand pressed convulsively on the lower buttons of his rusty black waistcoat.

Mrs.Finch's watery blue eyes looked across the room at me, in a moist melancholy of conjugal distress.

The rector, suddenly enlightened after his consultation with his stomach, strutted to the door, flung it wide open, and called down the kitchen stairs with a voice of thunder, "Poach me an egg!" He came back into the room--held another consultation, keeping his eyes severely fixed on me--strutted back in a furious hurry to the door--and bellowed a counter-order down the kitchen-stairs, "No egg! Do me a red herring!" He came back for the second time, with his eyes closed and his hand laid distractedly on his head.