She pinned the bright flowers by her very clean collar, and not very clean throat, and permitted us to supply ourselves also from Bridget's basket.
A less pleasant sign of summer than the lilac-blossom or Bridget's flower-basket was the heat.

It was hot in the dusty, draughty streets of the little town.

The empty bedrooms at Bush House were like ovens, and the well-filled school-room was much worse.

Madame would never hear any complaints of the heat from me or from Matilda.

Summer at Bush House, in the nature of things, could be nothing to summer in India, to which we were accustomed.