Fleetwood rose, drew a window-shade higher, and nodded toward several pictures; and Plank moved slowly from one to another, peering up at the dead Siwards in their crackled varnish.
"This is the real thing," observed Fleetwood cynically, "all this Fourth Avenue antique business; dingy, cumbersome, depressing.

Good God! I see myself standing it.

...

Look at that old grinny-bags in a pig-tail over there! To the cellar for his, if this were my house.

...