Look”—George’s chin was jutting out somewhat aggressively—“we’re all great admirers of Sir Willoughby’s hyacinth here, but can I read my own damn poem now?” He glared at Peggy. “It’s a sonnet. Do you know how hard a sonnet is?” Peggy had already been involved in one fight at the Farrows’, so she did not say, “Is it as hard as Sir Willoughby’s hyacinth?”
