Waiter, show me this gentleman's bill.

Oh well, oh well! you have not done so very badly.

Two squares and a round, with a jug of Steinberg, and a pint of British stout with your Stilton.

If this is your ante-lunch, what will you do when you come to your real luncheon?
But I must not talk now; you may have it as you please." "The truth of it is, Miss Castlewood," said the young man, while I looked with some curiosity at my frizzling bone, with the cover just whisked off, and drops of its juice (like the rays of a lustre) shaking with soft inner wealth--"the truth of it is just this, and no more: we fix our minds and our thoughts, and all the rest of our higher intelligence, a great deal too much upon our mere food." "No doubt we do," I was obliged to answer.

"It is very sad to think of, as soon as one has dined.