That'll save me; but you're too heavy, and the roots give way, and down you go lower and lower.

Lower and lower! The gates of hell must be very low down if one of our bankrupts don't reach 'em." He spoke this in a deep underbreath.
"Let's get out of the City.

There's no air.

Look at that cloud.

It's about over Brookfield, I should say." "Dear Brookfield!" echoed Emilia, feeling her heart fly forth to sing like a skylark under the cloud.
"And they're not satisfied with it," murmured Mr.Pole, with a voice of unwonted bitterness.
At the hotel, he was received very cordially by Mrs.Chickley, and Simon, the old waiter.
"You look as young as ever, ma'am," Mr.Pole complimented her cheerfully, while he stamped his feet on the floor, and put forward Emilia as one of his girls; but immediately took the landlady aside, to tell her that she was "merely a charge--a ward--something of that sort;" admitting, gladly enough, that she was a very nice young lady.