“How is your lettuce, Ma’am?” asked the old parish priest. “I hear it’s been bad everywhere this year.” He paused and blew his nose loudly and then he looked around him. “Slugs!” he said then, very sternly, and went on a few paces after my aunt. We hadn’t room to walk abreast on the narrow garden path. We went in single file; the three of us. After a minute the old man turned around and looked back at me.
“Slugs,” he said again, and only the fact that he put the word in the plural kept me from feeling that this sturdy and blunt old man was calling me names.
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