Everything that Mr Smallweed's grandfather ever put away in his mind was a grub at first, and is a grub at last. In all his life he has never bred a single butterfly.

For not an orphan in the wide world can be so deserted as the child who is an outcast from a living parent's love.

Gold, for the instant, lost its luster in his eyes, for there were countless treasures of the heart which it could never purchase

"Ah, Miss, hope is an excellent thing for such as has the spirits to bear it!" said Mrs Wickam, shaking her head. "My own spirits is not equal to it, but I don't owe it any grudge. I envys them that is so blest!"

The streets looked small, of course. The streets that we have only seen as children always do I believe when we go back to them

Of all the ruinous and desolate places my uncle had ever beheld, this was the most so. It looked as if it had once been a large house of entertainment; but the roof had fallen in, in many places, and the stairs were steep, rugged, and broken. There was a huge fire-place in the room into which they walked, and the chimney was blackened with smoke; but no warm blaze lighted it up now. The white feathery dust of burnt wood was still strewed over the hearth, but the stove was cold, and all was dark and gloomy.

She better liked to see him free and happy, even than to have him near her, because she loved him better than herself.