"Our law-writers, who live by job-work, are a queer lot; and this may not be his name, but it's the name he goes by.

I remember now, sir, that he gives it in a written advertisement he sticks up down at the Rule Office, and the King's Bench Office, and the Judges' Chambers, and so forth.

You know the kind of document, sir--wanting employ ?" Mr.Tulkinghorn glances through the little window at the back of Coavinses', the sheriff's officer's, where lights shine in Coavinses' windows.

Coavinses' coffee-room is at the back, and the shadows of several gentlemen under a cloud loom cloudily upon the blinds.

Mr.
Snagsby takes the opportunity of slightly turning his head to glance over his shoulder at his little woman and to make apologetic motions with his mouth to this effect: "Tul-king-horn--rich--in-flu-en-tial!" "Have you given this man work before ?" asks Mr.Tulkinghorn.
"Oh, dear, yes, sir! Work of yours." "Thinking of more important matters, I forget where you said he lived ?" "Across the lane, sir.