My father is a roguing knave, even sober. But with the drink in him he becomes dangerous. I could see we were approaching that stage as his color rose and his mouth turned from grin to snarl. “Don’t think you’re too good now, with your fancy quothings, just o’ cause that priest and his missus make much o’ye,” and at that he grabbed me by the shoulders and forced me down to kneel in front of him. The filth of his fingers left smears of grime on my whisk. I stared at my father’s breeches and noted that they smelled unclean.
