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his eyes were naturally heavy, he had an air of having wallowed, fully dressed, all day, on an unmade bed

The Secret Agent. Joseph Conrad.

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I saw that the bride within the bridal dress had withered like the dress, and the flowers, and had no brightness left but the brightness of her sunken eyes.

Great Expectations. Charles Dickens.

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What it was least possible to get rid of was the cruel idea that whatever I had seen Miles and Flora saw more - things terrible and unguessable

The Turn of the Screw. Henry James.

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Who wants a dingy woman? We are expected to be pretty and well dressed till we drop...

The House of Mirth.Edith Wharton.

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The Arcade of the Pont Neuf is not a place for a stroll.

You take it to make a short cut, to gain a few minutes. It is traversed by busy

people whose sole aim is to go quick and straight before them. You see
apprentices there in their working-aprons, work-girls taking home their
work, persons of both sexes with parcels under their arms. There are
also old men who drag themselves forward in the sad gloaming that falls
from the glazed roof, and bands of small children who come to the arcade
on leaving school, to make a noise by stamping their feet on the tiles
as they run along. Throughout the day a sharp hurried ring of footsteps,
resounds on the stone with irritating irregularity. Nobody speaks,
nobody stays there, all hurry about their business with bent heads,
stepping out rapidly, without taking a single glance at the shops. The
tradesmen observe with an air of alarm, the passers-by who by a miracle
stop before their windows.

Therese Raquin. Emile Zola.