The two young fools laughed until they cried. The more haste, the worse speed—better the feet slip than the tongue. “And now,” she said, splintering the surviving piece of coal into indignant flame-spurting fragments with one dexterous blow, “what am I to do? “I’m in a hole!—mess is a better word, expresses it better. ‘What we have to find out is whether or not the wretched female is in fact Lord Charvill’s granddaughter. Come into the parlour, Winifred, and dry your eyes directly, or I'll send you to bed. To my loving parents and brothers, and my Aunts, Gail and Barb. We are the species, and maternity is our game; that’s all right, but nobody wants that admitted for fear we should all catch fire, and set about fulfilling the purpose of our beings without waiting for further explanations.
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