The booths of the bazaar, which shuts at midday, were contained in a narrow lane, exhibiting beads and mirror-topped boxes from India, the rejected Homburg hats of the whole world, piles of loose turquoises, rows of Gyantse head-dresses, unstiffened and neatly folded, and a peculiar species of scissors whose blades resembled battered table-knives.

Sometimes she passed down avenues of sedate mansions, soberly numbered ‘one’, ‘two’, ‘three’, and so on right up to two or three hundred, each the copy of the other, with two pillars and six steps and a pair of curtains neatly drawn […]

The thus miserably cruciated spirit must needs quit its unfit habitation.

Weasel words are words that suck all of the life out of the words next to them just as a weasel sucks an egg and leaves the shell.