Some yellowish threads, detached from the mass, hung in stalactites from the buttons of his coat.

The vermicelli stopped on the outside, but the soup penetrated much further.

It was rather warm for pleasure; an egg left in it ten minutes would have been boiled hard.

Fatal soup, which not only distributed itself among the pockets, but into the most secret sinuosities of the man himself! The starting bell rang, the waiter collected his two sous, and Meiser got into the cars, preceded by a plaster of vermicelli, and followed by a little thread of soup which was running down the calves of his legs.
And all of this, because he had seen, or thought he had seen, the terrible figure of Colonel Fougas eating sandwiches.
Oh! how long the trip seemed! What a terrible time it appeared to be before he could be at home, between his wife Catharine and his servant Berbel, with all the doors safely closed! His two companions laughed till the buttons flew; people laughed in the compartment to the right of him, and in the compartment to the left of him.

As fast as he picked off the vermicelli, little spots of soup saucily congealed and seemed quietly laughing.