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Updated: September 18, 2025
It seemed to him that the woman, still colourless, again marvellously gowned, greeted him coldly. His host, however, was almost too effusive. There was no other guest, but the prompt announcement of dinner dispelled what might have been a few moments of embarrassment after Oliver Hilditch's almost too cordial greeting. The woman laid her fingers upon her guest's coat-sleeve.
'Perhaps they will take something to drink first, Mrs. Maylie? said the doctor: his face brightening, as if some new thought had occurred to him. 'Oh! to be sure! exclaimed Rose, eagerly. 'You shall have it immediately, if you will. 'Why, thank you, miss! said Blathers, drawing his coat-sleeve across his mouth; 'it's dry work, this sort of duty.
But, as I turned, my uncle Jervas laid his hand on my arm, a white, elegant hand strangely out of place on my rough and weather-beaten coat-sleeve. "Pray accept our sincerest apologies, Peregrine," said he. Now at this I glanced up in wondering surprise, for in the touch of this slim hand, in voice and look, I had an indefinable sense of comradeship that thrilled me with sudden pride.
She would put her hand within my arm without a moment's hesitation, chatting all the while, never seeming in the least to suspect the shiver of joy which shot through my whole frame from the little hand upon my coat-sleeve.
Seven or eight gentlemen were standing round the fire when they went in, and, as they were talking very loud, were not aware of their entrance until Mr Ralph Nickleby, touching one on the coat-sleeve, said in a harsh emphatic voice, as if to attract general attention 'Lord Frederick Verisopht, my niece, Miss Nickleby.
"I did not forget you," reply I, coolly; "but you do not affect the question one way or another you will be gone directly and when you are " "Thank you for the hint," he cries springing up, picking up his little stick off the grass and flushing. "You are not going?" cry I, eagerly, laying my hand on his coat-sleeve, "do not! why should you? there is no hurry.
We travelled to Isota on the Austrian frontier. As we sat at the railway-station there, wondering how we were going to smuggle ourselves across the frontier, in came a benevolent-looking Jew with a long venerable beard, two very long ear-locks, and a girdle round his waist, washed his hands ostentatiously at the station tap, prayed aloud the Asher Yotzer with great fervour, and on finishing his prayer looked everyone expectantly in the eyes, and all responded 'Amen. Then he drew up his coat-sleeve with great deliberation, extended his hand, gave me an effusive 'Shalom Aleichem' and asked me how it went with me.
"Do you see what I am?" she said to the manager. Nothing pitiful in her voice. It was too late for that. "He wouldn't touch me: I'm not fit. I want help. Give me some honest work." She stopped and put her hand on his coat-sleeve. The child she might have been, and never was, looked from her face that moment. "God made me, I think," she said, humbly. The manager's thin face reddened.
"You take 'em off," said the mate, sharply. "I won't let you wear 'em." "I beg your pardin," said Jones, with great politeness, "we got these 'ere 'ats for the weddin', an' we're a-goin' to wear 'em." He took the offending article off and brushed it tenderly with his coat-sleeve, while the furious mate looked assault and battery at the other three.
The eyes of Monsieur Jesen were a little more bloodshot now. He had spilt wine down the front of his waistcoat, cigar ash upon his coat-sleeve. He was by no means an inviting person to look at. Yet about his forehead and mouth there was an expression of power. Herr Freudenberg, with obvious regret, abandoned his conversation for a moment. "You are taking your friend away?" he remarked suavely.
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