"And now, haven't you anything to tell me?
Are you alone here?
Then, what the deuce do you do with yourself ?" "Chiefly meditate." "You're the rummest fellow I ever knew.

I've wanted to write to you, but--hang it!--what with hot weather and brass bedsteads, and this and that----Now, what _are_ you going to do?
Your money won't last for ever.

Haven't you any projects?
It was no good talking about it before you left Dudley.

I saw that.

You were all but fit for a lunatic asylum, and no wonder.