Here’s one of my favorite snippets from chapter six of A Faculty Daughter.
From across the room came the cacophony of breaking dishes—to which all heads turned—and in the second of ensuing silence a trio of silverware pinged off the floor as though its thunder had been stolen by the china. The boys broke into raucous applause, wolf whistles of appreciation. This was the Browning practice when a student slipped and fell on the greasy tiles by the dish window. The faculty frowned on the tradition, and blustered, Quiet now, boys, or That’s enough now, but no one bothered to do anything about it. The poor boy—sensitive Andrew Gold who had sat at our table the year before—struggled gamely to his feet, but the tips of his ears blazed. His blue Oxford shirt, dark with liquid, clung to his stomach. Andrew stood regarding the mess. Louis had clapped and whistled along with the others, except Frank who had jerked at the noise and knocked his milk over. He and Phillip pushed at the widening flow on the table with their napkins.