E. Anna, with her marvellous capacity for enjoyment, ate cakes and laughed, and forgot that she had had tea an hour or so ago at an A. “You seem to be taking our little joke more seriously than it deserves, Ferringhall,” he remarked. The room was worse than pokey, it was shabby; and the view from the window, of chimney pots and slate roofs, wholly uninspiring. She threw out a hand to stop herself from cannoning into them and, losing balance, tripped over her own petticoats and fell to the carpeted floor, her hat falling off as she did so. At the door to the kitchen, he called out, ‘Pottiswick!’ The old man came out, shoving his chin in the air and glaring.
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