There was a stupefying prospect of wondrous things in profusion to eat and drink-jam, ginger-beer, cake! So rumour had it; and to unsophisticated Paul rumour was gospel truth.

With all these unexperienced joys before him, what cared he for the blankety little blanks who gibed at him?
If you imagine that little Paul Kegworthy formulated his thoughts as would the angel choir-boy in the pictures, you are mistaken.

The baby language of Bludston would petrify the foc'sle of a tramp, steamer.

The North of England is justly proud of its virility.
The Sunday school, marshalled by curates and teachers, awaited the party from the vicarage.

The thick and darkened sunshine of Bludston flooded the asphalt of the yard, which sent up a reek of heat, causing curates to fan themselves with their black straw hats, and little boys in clean collars to wriggle in sticky discomfort, while in the still air above the ignoble town hung the heavy pall of smoke.