St Agnes' Eve - Ah, bitter chill it was! / The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold; / The hare limped trembling through the frozen grass, / And silent was the flock in woolly fold.

She shot Rose a look before turning to the hare. She seasoned it, set it in the jug with herbs, bacon, a blade of mace, an onion stuck with cloves, two wineglasses of port, a tablespoonful of currant jelly, and a covering of thin broth, and put it on the heat. Then she moved on to the orange cream. Being fastidious in culinary matters- why estimate and run the risk of being wrong, when you might measure and always be exact?- she took out her balance and weighted the sugar which Rose had ground.

The latest dream I ever dreamed / On the cold hill side.

Civet of hare in the south China seas! 'Gosh, Gertrude, let's go have some civet of hare, it's really cold out there.

Somebody's feathers are going to get ruffled.

I don't mean to sound bitter, cold, or cruel, but I am, so that's how it comes out.