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He never lost patience with my endless questioning. If he wanted a rest, he would take out his pipe and spend a long time lighting it. If this took very long I’d find something else to do. But sometimes I’d wait patiently until the pipe was drawing, and then return to the attack.
It was impossible to tell his age. He may have been thirty-six or eighty-six. He was either very young for his years or very old for them.
When the garden was bare of all colour, the marigold would still be there, gay and flashy, challenging the sun.
