That zealous and devoted husband had made his first excursion inland to drop over the downs to the great house, and fetch her away as his bride, on the death of her master, Sir Alfred Pooney, who never would have parted with her in life; and every day of that man's life he dirtied thirteen plates at dinner, nor more, nor less, but exactly that number, as if he believed there was luck in it.

And as Crickledon said, it was odd.

But it was always a pleasure to cook for him.

Mrs.Crickledon could not abide cooking for a mean eater.

And when Crickledon said he had never seen an acorn, he might have seen one had he looked about him in the great park, under the oaks, on the day when he came to be married.
"Then it's a standing compliment to you, Mrs.Crickledon, that he did not," said Herbert.
He remarked with the sententiousness of enforced philosophy, that no wine was better than bad wine.
Mrs.Crickledon spoke of a bottle left by her summer lodgers, who had indeed left two, calling the wine invalid's wine; and she and her husband had opened one on the anniversary of their marriage day in October.