I know you’re blind,
But I don’t mind.’”
Elfrida looked eagerly round her. There was the short turf; the castle walls, ivied and grey, rose high above her; pigeons circled overhead, and in the arches of the windows and on the roof of the house they perched, preening their bright feathers or telling each other, “Coo, coo; cooroo, cooroo,” whatever that may mean. But there was no mole—not a hint or a dream or idea of a mole.
“Edred,” said his sister.
“Well?”
“Did you really make that up? Don’t be cross, but I do think I’ve heard something like it before.”
“I—I adopted it,” said Edred.
“?” said Elfrida.
“Haven’t you seen it in books, ‘Adopted from the French’? I altered it.”
“I don’t believe that’ll do. How much did you alter? What’s the real poetry like?”