Whoever heard of a haberdasher's clerk reading Morte d'Arthur and writing sonnets? She was reasonably certain that while Thomas had jotted it down in scornful self-flagellation, it occupied a place somewhere in his past. "They turne out ther trashe And shew ther haberdashe, Ther pylde pedlarye." There's no romance in collars and cuffs and ties and suspenders.