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We learned a little more Latin than we knew when we went there, but I don't know that that has been of any use to us; whereas for the dry tomes of divinity we waded through, I am happy to say that not a single word of the musty stuff remains in my brains.
What are a lot of musty, mouldy old grandfathers, compared with life and love and happiness? It 's hardly good form to mention one's ancestors nowadays, and what 's the use of them at all if one can't boast of them?" "It 's all very well of you to talk that way," she rejoined.
At first the food had been pretty good, but it now became worse and worse, and the men swore that they would stand it no longer. At last, when some rancid pork had been served out with musty peas and weevilly biscuits, the men went aft in a body, headed by the boatswain, Sass Jowler, and Growles, who were deputed to be spokesmen, to the quarterdeck, where the captain was walking.
Neither of his companions felt much inclined to accede to his request: they both yielded notwithstanding. He conducted them up-stairs, unlocked the musty room, pulled up the blinds, and admitted enough of lingering light for the concluding devotions of the day. He then proceeded to gather his family together, calling them one by one.
He was thirsty, but he drank only a mouthful; the water was flat and insipid. . . . The old cabin was in better repair than he would have thought. He sprung the door open. It was musty and strung with cobwebs; that was the room she had occupied. He did not go in, but sat down and tried to think. Later he walked up the canyon.
The old family solicitor dies, and the new man proceeds with the permission of his clients to burn all these musty papers, which are of immense value in tracing the history of a manor or of a family. Some years ago a leading family solicitor became bankrupt. His office was full of old family deeds and municipal archives. What happened?
I sauntered along, forgetful of musty papers, of the offices, of my chief, my colleagues, my documents, and thinking of the good things that were sure to come to me, of all the veiled unknown contained in the future.
Hogshead Geoffrey emptied his glass at one go. Leaning his head against the wall, his fists on the table, his legs stretched out, he stared at the ceiling. The atmosphere of this den in the rue Monge was poisonous with the odours of stale wine and rank tobacco. The musty air was thick, the shop was ill-lighted by one jet of gas in the centre of the room. "Well, old Scrub," said Geoffrey at last.
It was so large in size that it had nothing of the musty feeling of the little caverns below, but was airy, and even bright with sunshine during part of the day. Every body seemed to find a nook or place in it so suited to their minds, that we called it the "Cavern of Content."
My bedroom at home was not large, yet it could have contained a dozen similar forecastles, and taking into consideration the height of the ceiling, a score at least. It smelled sour and musty, and by the dim light of the swinging sea-lamp I saw every bit of available wall-space hung deep with sea-boots, oilskins, and garments, clean and dirty, of various sorts.
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