Carlyle was a prize.

There were books upon the Italian painters of the Renaissance, a Manual of the Diseases of the Horse, and all the usual text-books.

Listless is the air in an empty room, just swelling the curtain; the flowers in the jar shift.

One fibre in the wicker arm-chair creaks, though no one sits there.
Coming down the steps a little sideways [Jacob sat on the window-seat talking to Durrant; he smoked, and Durrant looked at the map], the old man, with his hands locked behind him, his gown floating black, lurched, unsteadily, near the wall; then, upstairs he went into his room.

Then another, who raised his hand and praised the columns, the gate, the sky; another, tripping and smug.