p of dough.

    You knoc beam across tone floor and cellars underneat seemed to me one sink  an iron pump, a dresser covering one ic range ook God kno table rolling out a  in beetle-traps (ed o table to try and cadge a bit of food. Mot ing bet t along  going to  you off a trip of candied peel.

    I used to like to cry. tion in cands. atco cook, I mean—rolling doug a peculiar, solemn, indraisfied kind of air, like a priestess celebrating a sacred rite. And in ’s exactly led s  to do.  sood. Except t of gossip tside  really exist for o read novelettes as ime I en years old. Sainly couldn’t old you  of England, and I doubt o tbreak of t ar sold you  ern countries  ing guard over to t. I can almost ting t! t t s a eunuc in reality s must  as private as ts . S into t beo t tomer. S , and until to flour s knos.   t s very mucy. o look after t if srying to seton for himself.

    So far as t, ours  like clock ural process. You kne breakfast able tomorroo bed at nine and got up at five, and s it vaguely  of decadent and foreign and aristocratic—to keep later  mind paying Katie Simmons to take Joe and me out for e to  ick. Enormous meals—boiled beef and dumplings, roast beef and Yorkston and capers, pig’s ted dog, and jam roly-poly—er. t bringing up cill  fast. In till t to bed on bread and er, and certainly you o be sent aable if you made too mucing, or c ice t mucing ‘Spare too art. o’ give Joe a good o tell us stories, ful to give rap, but not. By time Joe rong for Moto ge