There's no knowing what to get for her." After that, the flagging conversation languished, drawn out into detached phrases, which had no particular meaning.

Madame Nanteuil, the servant, the coke fire, the lamp, the plate of sausage, awaited Felicie in depressing silence.

The clock struck one.

Chevalier's suffering had by this time attained the serenity of a flood tide.

He was now certain.
The cabs were not so frequent and their wheels echoed more loudly along the street.