The next morning there were stains on my cushions--the stains left by bloody hands.

They never could wash them out.

They never could wash them out." There was a lurch as a wheel bumped down into a hollow in the rough road, and the exile fell to groaning and blaspheming.
"Ah, my rheumatic joints; my poor old bones! This climate!" So the old Fifth Avenue bus complained of the rheumatism.

I recalled that the diligence that carried M.Tartarin across the Algerian desert also gave vent to many "Ai's" about aching joints and sudden twinges.
What creatures of imitation we are, to be sure! "But it is the loss of old friends that hurts the most," so the confidences went on.

"There was Mulligan, for example, of whom I was speaking just now--he of the long coat and the dented brown derby hat.
Far up, near the end of the line, there was an old one-story frame roadhouse, that had been there in my father's time, in my grandfather's time, in my great-grandfather's time.