At the far end two women were engaged in a game of troll-my-dames, which involved rolling leather balls toward purpose-made holes in a trolling bench.

He re-gurgled. “But this is terrible.” “Might be considerably better, I agree.” “Your uncle will be most upset.” “He'll have kittens.” “Kittens?” “That's right.” “Why kittens?” “Why not?” From the look on Bobbie's face, as she stood listening to our cross-talk act, I could see that the inner gist was passing over her head. Cryptic, she seemed to be registering it as.

He … ſeldom waits, / Dependent on the baker's punctual call, / To hear his creaking panniers at the door, / Angry and ſad and his laſt cruſt conſumed.

While I was on the ground photographing the flowers, I noticed a red and black hister beetle that proved to be Margarinotus bipustulatus—aptly named considering the two red maculations on the elytra.