Betjeman, who was a bit of a gricer, wrote: I know of no greater pleasure for elevenses in London than to sit in this tea place and watch the trains arrive and depart.

I was absurdly pleased, like a very apprentice cocksmith praised for the length of his stream, and to cover my embarrassment I turned the talk back to her problems.

Let Paris tremble—“What? that Thing of ſilk, “Paris, that mere white Curd of Aſs’s milk? “Satire or Shame alas! can Paris feel? “Who breaks a Butterfly upon a Wheel?” Yet let me flap this Bug with gilded wings, This painted Child of Dirt that ſtinks and ſtings

From cell to cell of his brain crept the one thought; and the wild desire to live, most terrible of all man's appetites, quickened into force each trembling nerve and fibre.