They were all eating roast beef in Scarborough; for it was Sunday when Jacob caught the pale clouded yellows in the clover field, eight miles from home.
Rebecca had caught the death's-head moth in the kitchen.
A strong smell of camphor came from the butterfly boxes.
Mixed with the smell of camphor was the unmistakable smell of seaweed.
Tawny ribbons hung on the door.

The sun beat straight upon them.
The upper wings of the moth which Jacob held were undoubtedly marked with kidney-shaped spots of a fulvous hue.

But there was no crescent upon the underwing.

The tree had fallen the night he caught it.

There had been a volley of pistol-shots suddenly in the depths of the wood.
And his mother had taken him for a burglar when he came home late.