Meaning Dickens, of course, to whom she had constructed a small shrine in her bedroom at Buckshaw. Before coming away on our holiday, I had suggested she have the whole setup mounted on an oxcart as they did with their portable altars in the Middle Ages. “We can tow it behind the Rolls,” I told her. “Think how handy it would be to have the whole lot of it: portrait of the Divine Charles, candles, snuffers, incense, first editions of Bleak House and The Pickwick Papers all right there at your fingertips in case you suffer withdrawal symptoms.”
