Ah, well!" Dan Anderson sighed softly.

The lazy sun crawled on.

Nobody came into the street.

There was nothing to happen.

It might have been an hour before Dan Anderson leaned over, picked up a splinter to whittle, and went on with his story, back of which I was long before this well convinced there remained some topic concealed, albeit beneath inconsequent and picturesque details.
"At that state of my _entwickelung_, as the French say, I still wore my trousers with a strong crimp at the bottom and cut pear-shaped at the hips.