“‘Sort of thanksgiving for what we got through at the time,’ they would explain. Late in the autumn, after the leaves of the pumpkins that always grew on the roof of the shelter had been blackened to sloppy pulp by the first frosts, Pinkie raked off the old dead vines, scrubbed down the interior corrugated iron with strong carbolic soap and opened the door for several days to give the shelter what she called ‘a bit of a sweetener’. Pinkie was small, very cherubic and fierily red in the face, wit...h light blue eyes that protruded eagerly like little silver thimbles. After a few drops of what she called ‘the you know what’ she glowed hotly, with positively mustard-like excitement, and chattered with panting merriment, looking like a breathless Pekinese. In the household she rushed from object to object in sniffing and palpitating pursuit, as if everywhere seeking a hidden bone. Miss Rigby, Spud, was neither so active nor so lucky. She was big, slow, imperturbable and misshapen. Her face was so like a large discoloured potato that the name Spud really suited her.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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