It was the moment for smiles. He’s waiting. Looking sullen, he released the handle and sat back. The train, meantime, had passed Marylebone Lane, when it again paused for a moment, at Jack's request, near the door of a public-house called the City of Oxford. He “went in” for microscopy in the unphilosophical Victorian manner as his “hobby. It was as if Grace-church Street, with all its shops, its magazines, and ceaseless throng of passengers, were stretched from the Middlesex to the Surrey shore. ’ He threw a fulminating glance at Gerald. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. He took into his soul some of the father's misery, some of the daughter's, to mingle with his own.
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