As for Mrs.Flanders's letter--when he looked for it the other day he could not find it, and did not like to ask his wife whether she had put it away.

Meeting Jacob in Piccadilly lately, he recognized him after three seconds.

But Jacob had grown such a fine young man that Mr.Floyd did not like to stop him in the street.
"Dear me," said Mrs.Flanders, when she read in the Scarborough and Harrogate Courier that the Rev.Andrew Floyd, etc., etc., had been made Principal of Maresfield House, "that must be our Mr.Floyd." A slight gloom fell upon the table.

Jacob was helping himself to jam; the postman was talking to Rebecca in the kitchen; there was a bee humming at the yellow flower which nodded at the open window.

They were all alive, that is to say, while poor Mr.Floyd was becoming Principal of Maresfield House.
Mrs.Flanders got up and went over to the fender and stroked Topaz on the neck behind the ears.
"Poor Topaz," she said (for Mr.Floyd's kitten was now a very old cat, a little mangy behind the ears, and one of these days would have to be killed).
"Poor old Topaz," said Mrs.Flanders, as he stretched himself out in the sun, and she smiled, thinking how she had had him gelded, and how she did not like red hair in men.