The landlord knows me.
There's a little summer-house overlooking the river, where we might take a glass of this delicious liquor with a whiff of the best tobacco--it's in this case, and of the rarest quality, to my certain knowledge--and be perfectly snug and happy, could we possibly contrive it; or is there any very particular engagement that peremptorily takes you another way, Mr Swiveller, eh ?' As the dwarf spoke, Dick's face relaxed into a compliant smile, and his brows slowly unbent.

By the time he had finished, Dick was looking down at Quilp in the same sly manner as Quilp was looking up at him, and there remained nothing more to be done but to set out for the house in question.

This they did, straightway.

The moment their backs were turned, little Jacob thawed, and resumed his crying from the point where Quilp had frozen him.
The summer-house of which Mr Quilp had spoken was a rugged wooden box, rotten and bare to see, which overhung the river's mud, and threatened to slide down into it.

The tavern to which it belonged was a crazy building, sapped and undermined by the rats, and only upheld by great bars of wood which were reared against its walls, and had propped it up so long that even they were decaying and yielding with their load, and of a windy night might be heard to creak and crack as if the whole fabric were about to come toppling down.