bowl and was pouring a spoonful of the paste into the pan, and it was not the moment to let one's thoughts wander. Somebody knocked on the door with a stick, then it was flung open.
"Who's there?" asked Mother Barberin, without turning round.
A man had come in. By the bright flame which lit him up I could see that he carried a big stick in his hand.
"So, you're having a feast here, don't disturb yourselves," he said roughly.
"Oh, Lord!" cried Mother Barberin, putting the frying pan quickly on the floor, "is it you, Jerome."
Then, taking me by the arm she dragged me towards the man who had stopped in the doorway.
"Here's your father."
