Charles hadn't visited the manor
house since Easter, 1955,
and now he remembered why. Several things bothered him
acutely: The gigantic bushes that
obscured the windowsThe shrill cries of the tame
peacocks on the lawnThe slippery parquet flooring in
the parlour
Hullo, he called out as he walked up the drive, and
then, as if to himself, To be or not to
be?, to walk or not to walk...oh,
hang it all! His meditation was
interrupted as he collided with a peacock. Sacré bleu! he exclaimed with
irritation, his sang-froid
completely deserting him. It was going to be a long
week.