[T]he dreary expanse of whitewashed walls, that at so small a cost might have been embellished by plaster-of-Paris friezes and large medallions, illustrating to the eye of the youthful student the most memorable glorifications of literature—these were bare as the walls of a poor-house or a lazaretto; […]

Penny's world seemed only to make sense to her as a forcefield of detestations.

This is Timons laſt, / Who ſtucke and ſpangled you with Flatteries, / Waſhes it off, and ſprinkles in your faces / Your reeking villany.

It is difficult walking on loose gravel.