Hundreds, yes, literally hundreds, had come out in a single night; the green bushes bowed down as though they had been visited by archangels.
Breakfast was not yet over before the men came to put up the marquee.
"Where do you want the marquee put, mother ?" "My dear child, it's no use asking me.

I'm determined to leave everything to you children this year.

Forget I am your mother.

Treat me as an honoured guest." But Meg could not possibly go and supervise the men.

She had washed her hair before breakfast, and she sat drinking her coffee in a green turban, with a dark wet curl stamped on each cheek.