His own grandfather lived to ninety-seven, and died sitting in his chair, in a bottle-green coat and buff breeches.

He wore a pig-tail to the day of his death, and never would be contradicted by anybody.

He had often told my father that at the school _he_ went to, the master signed the receipts for his money with a cross, but the usher was a bit of a scholar, and the boys had cream to their porridge on Sundays.

And the old gentleman managed his own affairs to ninety-seven, and threw the doctor's medicine-bottles out of the window then.

He died without a doubt on his mind or a debt on his books, and my father (taking a pinch out of Great-Grandfather's snuff-box) hoped Jem and I might do as well.
In short, we were sent to "Crayshaw's." It was not a happy period of my life.