They had supped sparingly, of necessity, and had finished every morsel of food.

(Frank had even found himself mechanically gathering up crumbs on a wet finger.) They had had a bad week of it; the corn was not yet ready for cutting, and there seemed no work anywhere for honest men.

The Major's gloom had become terrible; he had even made remarks upon a choice between a workhouse and a razor.

He had got up after supper and turned his waistcoat pockets inside out to secure the last possible grains of tobacco, and had smoked about a quarter of a pipeful gathered in this way without uttering one word.

He had then uttered a short string of them, had seized his cap and disappeared.
Frank, too, was even more heavy and depressed than usual.