'No, I don't know how it is, but so it is.

You have got a twist in that bone, to the best of my belief.

I never saw the likes of you.' Mr Wegg having looked distrustfully at his own limb, and suspiciously at the pattern with which it has been compared, makes the point: 'I'll bet a pound that ain't an English one!' 'An easy wager, when we run so much into foreign! No, it belongs to that French gentleman.' As he nods towards a point of darkness behind Mr Wegg, the latter, with a slight start, looks round for 'that French gentleman,' whom he at length descries to be represented (in a very workmanlike manner) by his ribs only, standing on a shelf in another corner, like a piece of armour or a pair of stays.
'Oh!' says Mr Wegg, with a sort of sense of being introduced; 'I dare say you were all right enough in your own country, but I hope no objections will be taken to my saying that the Frenchman was never yet born as I should wish to match.' At this moment the greasy door is violently pushed inward, and a boy follows it, who says, after having let it slam: 'Come for the stuffed canary.' 'It's three and ninepence,' returns Venus; 'have you got the money ?' The boy produces four shillings.

Mr Venus, always in exceedingly low spirits and making whimpering sounds, peers about for the stuffed canary.

On his taking the candle to assist his search, Mr Wegg observes that he has a convenient little shelf near his knees, exclusively appropriated to skeleton hands, which have very much the appearance of wanting to lay hold of him.