Our spoilt child pouted, and was utterly averse to any detour of any sort.
"Let's get back straight to Ivor," she said, petulantly.

"I've had enough of camping out.

It's all very well in its way for a week but when they begin to talk about cutting your throat and all that, it ceases to be a joke and becomes a wee bit uncomfortable.

I want my feather bed.

I object to their villages." "But consider, dear," Hilda said, gently.