I have never, to this hour, got the better of that bushel of wheat.

It has reappeared to annihilate me, all through my life, in connexion with all kinds of subjects.

I don't know now, exactly, what it has to do with me, or what right it has to crush me, on an infinite variety of occasions; but whenever I see my old friend the bushel brought in by the head and shoulders (as he always is, I observe), I give up a subject for lost.
This is a digression.

I was not the man to touch the Commons, and bring down the country.

I submissively expressed, by my silence, my acquiescence in all I had heard from my superior in years and knowledge; and we talked about The Stranger and the Drama, and the pairs of horses, until we came to Mr.Spenlow's gate.
There was a lovely garden to Mr.Spenlow's house; and though that was not the best time of the year for seeing a garden, it was so beautifully kept, that I was quite enchanted.