At least, I suppose that was what they wanted, but the children never would.
On the Fifth of November father and mother went to the theatre, and the children were not happy, because the Prossers next door had lots of fireworks and they had none.
They were not even allowed to have a bonfire in the garden.
'No more playing with fire, thank you,' was father's answer, when they asked him.
When the baby had been put to bed the children sat sadly round the fire in the nursery.
'I'm beastly bored,' said Robert.
'Let's talk about the Psammead,' said Anthea, who generally tried to give the conversation a cheerful turn.
'What's the good of TALKING ?' said Cyril.

'What I want is for something to happen.

It's awfully stuffy for a chap not to be allowed out in the evenings.

There's simply nothing to do when you've got through your homers.' Jane finished the last of her home-lessons and shut the book with a bang.
'We've got the pleasure of memory,' said she.

'Just think of last holidays.' Last holidays, indeed, offered something to think of--for they had been spent in the country at a white house between a sand-pit and a gravel-pit, and things had happened.