Threshold, house, railing, and plot, each as like to the other as are those small commodities called "nest-tables," which, "even as a broken mirror multiplies," summon to the bewildered eye countless iterations of one four-legged individual.
Paradise Place was a set of nest houses.
A cow had passed through the streets with a milkwoman behind; two young and gay shopmen "looking after the gals," had reconnoitred the street, and vanished in despair.

The twilight advanced--but gently; and though a star or two were up, the air was still clear.

At the open window of one of the tenements in this street sat Alice Darvil.

She had been working (that pretty excuse to women for thinking), and as the thoughts grew upon her, and the evening waned, the work had fallen upon her knee, and her hands dropped mechanically on her lap.

Her profile was turned towards the street; but without moving her head or changing her attitude, her eyes glanced from time to time to her little girl, who nestled on the ground beside her, tired with play; and wondering, perhaps, why she was not already in bed, seemed as tranquil as the young mother herself.