Clara's father, a trollish ne'er-do-well who spent most of his time in brothels and saloons, would disappear for days and weeks at a stretch, leaving Clara and her mother to fend for themselves.

'Oh, you scandalous, hypocritical, rusty-booted, numb-handed son of a puffing corn-cutter, why don't you turn your attention to feeding hens, cultivating cabbages, or making pantaloons for small folk, instead of killing hounds in this wholesale way'! roared Jack; an enquiry that set him foaming again.

Not to sound slut-shamey or anything here, coming from someone who was also sexually active at around the same age, but if I was getting my swerve on with dudes in their 20s, I’m pretty sure I would remember that sh*t.

Carey was formulating a picture of this little cuntling who she called Heather in his mind's eye, and it was none too flattering.