There was nobody at home.
In the mighty stream, of which men and women are the waves, that poured ceaselessly along its channels, friends met surprised--touched each other's hands.
"Came in this morning--off to-night--droll it looks--nobody in town--" And the tumultuous throng bore them apart.
In the evening the Park Theatre is jammed to hear Mr.Forrest, who made his first appearance in Philadelphia nine or ten years ago, and is already a New York favorite.

Contoit's garden flutters with the cool dresses of the promenaders, who move about between the arbors looking for friends and awaiting ices.

The click of billiard balls is heard in the glittering cafe at the corner of Reade Street, and a gay company smokes and sips at the Washington Hotel.

Life bursts from every door, from every window, but there is nobody in town.
More than two hundred thousand men, women, and children go to their beds and wake up to the morrow, but there is nobody in town.

Nobody in town, because Mrs.Boniface Newt & Co.