“Oh dear me, dear me!” sighs Mr. Venus, heavily, snuffing the candle, “the world that appeared so flowery has ceased to blow! You’re casting your eye round the shop, Mr. Wegg. Let me show you a light. My working bench. My young man’s bench. A wice. Tools. Bones, warious. Skulls, warious. Preserved Indian baby. African ditto. Bottled preparations, warious. Everything within reach of your hand, in good preservation. The mouldy ones atop. What’s in those hampers over them again, I don’t quite remember. Say, human warious. Cats. Articulated English baby. Dogs. Ducks. Glass eyes, warious. Mummied bird. Dried cuticle, warious. Oh, dear me! That’s the general panoramic view.”

Having so held and waved the candle as that all these heterogeneous objects seemed to come forward obediently when they were named, and then retire again, Mr. Venus despondently repeats, “Oh dear me, dear me!” resumes his seat, and with drooping despondency upon him, falls to pouring himself out more tea.