He brought the grater, and she grated the bread on to a newspaper on the table.

He set the doors open to blow away the smell of burned bread.

Beatrice grated away, puffing her cigarette, knocking the charcoal off the poor loaf.
"My word, Miriam! you're in for it this time," said Beatrice.
"I!" exclaimed Miriam in amazement.
"You'd better be gone when his mother comes in.

I know why King Alfred burned the cakes.

Now I see it! 'Postle would fix up a tale about his work making him forget, if he thought it would wash.