She was wearing a mackintosh, which was in itself rather funny, but her feet were bare.
A voice broke in: "Good for you, cully." It was Sarah Brown's fellow-lodger leaning from her window.
The squirrel rippled higher up the may tree.
The pleasure of the thing broke like an eggshell.

Sarah Brown turned back towards her bed.

It was too early to get up.

It was too late to go to sleep again.

Eunice, her hot-water bottle, she knew, lay cold as a serpent to shock her feet if she returned.