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True to a prophetic feeling which possessed her, the opening of the door disclosed to view the last person to be desired, on that or any other morning: Miss Strong, a regular Dickensonian old maid. "Good morning, sweet child!" she exclaimed, the moment Bea's dismayed face presented itself. "Good morning, Miss Strong; will you come in?" "Come in? Surely, dear.
Also he was going to find what an "eel pie" was, and he had a dozen Dickensonian dishes that he proposed to explore, dishes whose very names would make a wooden Indian's mouth water. But when he got there the cupboard was bare. England was going on rations. Fats were scarce, sugars were rare, starches were controlled by the food board. And who could make a currant tart without these?
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