I had a friend called Pawson II, who had a habit of biting the skin on the sides of his fingers - unconsciously, I’m sure. One day, when he was doing it in form, Mr Stow took a minute or two to castigate the nasty habit and point out how objectionable it was. A morning or two later, the wretched boy was doing it again, while Mr Stow was expounding Virgil. He finished the passage and then enquired conversationally, ‘Breakfast nearly over, Pawson?’
