1 Now you may eat, though still not immoderately.
2 I sat down near him, but told him I could not eat.
3 But you eat nothing: you have scarcely tasted since you began tea.
4 This precious vessel was now placed on my knee, and I was cordially invited to eat the circlet of delicate pastry upon it.
5 A little before dark I passed a farm-house, at the open door of which the farmer was sitting, eating his supper of bread and cheese.
6 She would thus descend to the kitchen once a day, eat her dinner, smoke a moderate pipe on the hearth, and go back, carrying her pot of porter with her, for her private solace, in her own gloomy, upper haunt.
7 When it came to my turn, I drank, for I was thirsty, but did not touch the food, excitement and fatigue rendering me incapable of eating: I now saw, however, that it was a thin oaten cake shared into fragments.
8 Besides, there were fewer to feed; the sick could eat little; our breakfast-basins were better filled; when there was no time to prepare a regular dinner, which often happened, she would give us a large piece of cold pie, or a thick slice of bread and cheese, and this we carried away with us to the wood, where we each chose the spot we liked best, and dined sumptuously.