“ She not let him bathe? She don’t let him do nothing⁠—not even breathe, I fancy! ’Twould be somebody very different from our Gerda’s Mummy, Mr. Solent, what would make Lob Torp bide at whoam. But what ails ’ee, Sir, to speak with such disturbance of a good Darset duck-pond, such as I do mind sliding on, winter come winter, since I were slim as a lath? What’s Lenty Pond done to thee, Sir? ’Tis no girt place for perch or pike; and to my belief no wild-geese ever settled on it; but ’tis a good pond. ’Tis a pond that would drown the likes of you and me, maybe. But they boys! Why, they’d bathe in Satan’s spittle and come out sweet. Lenty Pond’s nothing to Lob Torp, Sir! You can rest peaceful on that.”