Tiled

Everything in the bathroom is tiled except the ceiling.

The corridor floor is tiled.

The roof is tiled with yellow tiles.

A bird's-eye view of a large city in Japan presents an appearance quite unlike that presented by any large assemblage of buildings at home. A view of Tokio, for example, from some elevated point reveals a vast sea of roofs, the gray of the shingles and dark slate-color of the tiles, with dull reflections from their surfaces, giving a sombre effect to the whole. The even expanse is broken here and there by the fire-proof buildings, with their ponderous tiled roofs and ridges and pure white or jet-black walls. These, though in color adding to the sombre appearance, form, with the exception of the temples, one of the most conspicuous features in the general monotony. The temples are indeed conspicuous, as they tower far above the pigmy dwellings which surround them. Their great black roofs, with massive ridges and ribs, and grand sweeps and white or red gables, render them striking objects from whatever point they are viewed. Green masses of tree-foliage springing from the numerous gardens add some life to this gray sea of domiciles.

Country and city houses of the better class vary as greatly as with us,—the one with its ponderous thatched roof and smoke-blackened interior, the other with low roof neatly tiled, or shingled, and the perfection of cleanliness within.

During excavation work, the tiled floor of a Roman villa was found.

She had stationed herself by the tube entrance and was leaning against the tiled wall, listening to the music coming from a pub across the road, when her friends came walking into view.

Tom tiled the floor.

I tripped in the alleyway in the darkness, as I crashed my knees on the asphalt. There was a wooden board that covered a wire between houses across the alleyway. It was very dark there at night. My eyeglasses fell off my face. Luckily, a Cantonese labourer with a flashlight helped me. My knees just got scraped. I remember another time when I crashed on my knees. It was at Don José Heights in Quezon City in the Philippines. There was a vastness of Martianesque red soil, wherein the "talahib" grass grew. Sometimes, workers intentionally set the grass on fire. My brother and I were still playing, even then, outside. We were still prepubescent. Near burning grass, I stumbled on my knees. My grandmother, Lola Bebe, was so angry. A maid washed my legs in the big tiled sink behind the garage.