There was a wharf behind, opening on the Thames.

An empty dog-kennel, some bones of animals, fragments of iron hoops, and staves of old casks, lay strewn about, but no life was stirring there.

It was a picture of cold, silent decay.
'This house depresses and chills one,' said Kate, 'and seems as if some blight had fallen on it.

If I were superstitious, I should be almost inclined to believe that some dreadful crime had been perpetrated within these old walls, and that the place had never prospered since.

How frowning and how dark it looks!' 'Lord, my dear,' replied Mrs Nickleby, 'don't talk in that way, or you'll frighten me to death.' 'It is only my foolish fancy, mama,' said Kate, forcing a smile.
'Well, then, my love, I wish you would keep your foolish fancy to yourself, and not wake up MY foolish fancy to keep it company,' retorted Mrs Nickleby.