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Updated: July 12, 2025
A troupe of mummers tumbled in, a bear performed tricks, a Little Russian dulcimer-player sang songs. The mummers brought in with them the smell of frost, furs, and napthaline. One of them emitted a cock's crow, and they danced a Russian dance. It was all merry and bright, a tumultuous, boisterous revel, as in the old Russian aristocracy days.
"Yes, even he is superior to me now," he thought, with a sigh, as Bliss left the room. Poor Ken there was no unhappier boy at Saint Winifred's; as he ate and ate of those ashy fruits of sin, they grew more and more dusty and bitter to his parched taste; as he drank of that napthaline river of wayward pride, it scorched his heart and did not quench his thirst.
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