'he had been so much accustomed to see sad objects and hear sorrowful stories that they did not affect him as they would have done any other child'
To raise the ghost of an idea
He was a tight fisted hand at the grindstone...squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous old sin.
It was a strange figure - like a child: yet not so like a child as like an old man, viewed through some supernatural medium, which gave him the appearance of having receded from the view, and being diminished to a child's proportions.'
Hard and sharp as a flint...secret, and self-contained...solitary as an oyster
Scrooges pointed nose, shrivelled cheek, his thin lips blue.
Afrosty rime.
He carried his own low temperature always about with him.
It was the very thing he liked. To edge his way along the crowed paths of life, warning all human sympathy to keep it's distance...
Fog cane pouring in at every chink
His clerk, in a dismal little cell beyond a sort of tank.
Bob tried to warm himself at the candle in which effort not being a man of a strong imagination he failed
This nephew of scrooges that be was all in a glow, his face was ruddy and handsome, his eyes sparkled and his breath smoked
...open their shut-up hearts freely and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow passengers to the grave.
At the ominous word liberality scrooge frowned
Bob had but fifteen ‘bob’ a week himself; he pocketed on Sundays but fifteen copies of his Christian name