"Suppose you do!" While she is gone, the surgeon abandons his hopeless investigation and covers its subject with the patchwork counterpane.

Mr.Krook and he interchange a word or two.

Mr.Tulkinghorn says nothing, but stands, ever, near the old portmanteau.
Mr.Snagsby arrives hastily in his grey coat and his black sleeves.
"Dear me, dear me," he says; "and it has come to this, has it! Bless my soul!" "Can you give the person of the house any information about this unfortunate creature, Snagsby ?" inquires Mr.Tulkinghorn.

"He was in arrears with his rent, it seems.

And he must be buried, you know." "Well, sir," says Mr.Snagsby, coughing his apologetic cough behind his hand, "I really don't know what advice I could offer, except sending for the beadle." "I don't speak of advice," returns Mr.Tulkinghorn.