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    The Daughter of Time
    The Daughter of Time
    The Daughter of Time
    Ebook232 pages4 hours

    The Daughter of Time

    By Josephine Tey

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    About this ebook

    "One of the best mysteries of all time" (The New York Times)—Josephine Tey recreates one of history’s most famous—and vicious—crimes in her classic bestselling novel, a must read for connoisseurs of fiction, now with a new introduction by Robert Barnard.

    Inspector Alan Grant of Scotland Yard, recuperating from a broken leg, becomes fascinated with a contemporary portrait of Richard III that bears no resemblance to the Wicked Uncle of history. Could such a sensitive, noble face actually belong to one of the world’s most heinous villains—a venomous hunchback who may have killed his brother’s children to make his crown secure? Or could Richard have been the victim, turned into a monster by the usurpers of England’s throne? Grant determines to find out once and for all, with the help of the British Museum and an American scholar, what kind of man Richard Plantagenet really was and who killed the Little Princes in the Tower.

    The Daughter of Time is an ingeniously plotted, beautifully written, and suspenseful tale, a supreme achievement from one of mystery writing’s most gifted masters.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherScribner
    Release dateJan 8, 2013
    ISBN9781476733159
    The Daughter of Time
    Author

    Josephine Tey

    Josephine Tey began writing full-time after the successful publication of her first novel, The Man in the Queue (1929), which introduced Inspector Grant of Scotland Yard. She died in 1952, leaving her entire estate to the National Trust.

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    Reviews for The Daughter of Time

    4/5

    1,741 ratings125 reviews

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    • 4/5
      Detective is stuck in hospital for many months recovering from multiple fractures. While there he researches the truth behind Richard III and Henry VII. "Truth is the daughter of time, not authority" Francis Bacon
    • 3/5
      The writing style made this one kind of hard to get thru for me. Fortunately it's pretty short. I did enjoy reading her obviously well-researched theories about what really happened to the two princes.
    • 4/5
      Just as delightful as all the reviewers and fans of Josephine Tey suggest it is, to follow Alan Grant's bed-bound investigation of the historical sources and what they fail to prove about Richard III's supposed murder of his young nephews, "the Princes in the Tower". I loved it. And I admire the way Tey used the "frame" of Grant being frustrated by inactivity, latching on to a portrait of Richard, bouncing from that to research aided by more-than-willing young American student who needs a thing of his own to pursue. Usually that kind of set-up dooms a book for me, or at least distracts immensely from the central mystery. But I actually enjoyed it in this case. My only quibble is that the American sounds rather British a lot of the time!
    • 5/5
      Very enjoyable
    • 4/5
      Read this for library book group. The was done to compare with "A Murder Is Announced" by Agatha Christie, which was written the same year. Very different styles and themes between the two authors. We understood that had a discord between them, but we couldn't find out the reason. I really struggled with this, hence the lower rating, since I'm weak in old English history, and royalty in particular. There was a family tree in the front of the book that was invaluable in my being able to finish. It was very well written, and suspense was raised several times through the story. This was my first experience with Tey, and a understand this was here best work, which leaves me less than enthusiastic to read more of her. We'll see.
    • 4/5
      One of the rare books that conveys the shear addictive glory of researching. It isn't so much the matter of what is being investigated it is how. It is a paean to the use of primary sources and wonderful reminder that conventional wisdom, even the conventional wisdom found in schoolbooks, should not be blindly accepted.
    • 3/5
      We read this while reading Shakespeare's "Richard III" because the book questions whether Richard is in fact innocent of killing the boys in the tower (we later used it to help provide evidence for a mock trial of Richard). I thought it was pretty convincing that Richard was innocent (so much so that I joined the Richard prosecution because I thought it would be harder). It's definitely a good source for a mock trial.
    • 4/5
      The recent confirmation that the bones discovered beneath a Leicester car park are those of Richard III drew me back to Josephine Tey's excellent historical detective novel. Inspector Grant is hospitalised with a spinal injury and in an effort to keep away the "prickles" of boredom takes up the case of why Richard III murdered the Princes in the Tower - only to find that there is no evidence he did so. A fabulously engaging novel that actually draws you in to the process of historical research using original sources (Grant is assisted by a young American historian who does all the digging in the archives). Really enjoyable and will make cynical about popular history AND make you want to join the Richard the Third society and clear his name. Recommended to mystery fans and historians alike!
    • 4/5
      What a well-written book! A treat to read, both because of the writing and because of the subject matter. The facts marshaled were convincing and the modern-day characters were sympathetic. Deft touches of humor were scattered throughout, and though the form could have been awkward, it was not. I kept thinking of My Dinner With Andre, though.
    • 3/5
      When Thomas More, a certified Saint , and Big Bill Shakespeare light out after you, you just don't have much a chance, do you? This is definitely a book that established a sub-genre of fiction, and its influence can be found in Biography, and even political science. Well done, Josephine Tey!
    • 4/5
      Really good but boy do you have to brush up on your History before starting this. I dived in as if it were a regular novel but had to take numerous breaks just to make sure I understood a bit about the period so as not to become lost with the cast of characters. Very clever premise and surprisingly engaging investigation seeing that it's one into a murder that's centuries old. Tey's excellent at making instinct seem like a plausible justification for drawing conclusions. I love her. Really original novel.
    • 4/5
      Enjoyed this one & don't recall when I read it. Donating as I'm clearing my bookshelves for a move.
    • 4/5
      Classic mystery with an absolutely timeless feel. The narrative device of Grant laid up in the hospital and the two nurses plus Marta and the researcher worked brilliantly. I was not familiar with this time in history and Tey certainly makes the case for what do we really know about history - consider the source.
    • 5/5
      In my top 5 books of all time. Sparked a love of British history for me.
    • 3/5
      Love Inspector Grant, was a little confused by this story. It follows a lot of English history that I didn't know. I always love Tey's writing, though.
    • 4/5
      Interesting little mystery. It must have been shocking when it first appeared if Richard III was in fact so reviled. I have read about most of this, so none of it was entirely surprising to me, but I did like the way it was laid out. There are a few flaws in the logic, but overall really well done and straightforward. I liked it, and undoubtedly would have liked it more if I actually enjoyed mysteries (rather than solely reading it for Richard III).
    • 5/5
      A re-read of an old favorite. Very clever "arm-chair mystery".
    • 2/5
      When I was young I was deeply impressed by this book and believed its argument for Richard III's innocence. I still think it is beautifully written and gets across the excitement of historical research very well, but having done professional research on Richard III I believe the evidence strongly favors the view that he wrongfully usurped the throne and in all probability eliminated the princes, though I concede there is no "smoking dagger."
    • 4/5
      I appreciate the massive historical research involved in this novel, but not being an expert in royal history, I was actually a bit lost during parts of the book. I had to use my guide to kings and queens of England as a reference to get through it.
    • 4/5
      Bizarre book - shouldn't work, a detective rewriting history to pass time during his recuperation, but it does. Fascinating subject, and I eventually found myself as caught up in Richard III (if a little confused) as Grant and his young 'Research Worker'; if anything, it's made me want to read into the history myself. Probably not the best introduction to Tey's detective, but a swift and thoughtful read.
    • 4/5
      Too much going on, and not enough narrative to back it up, but kind of an entertaining twist on English history for all that. Contemporary at the time it was written (1951) we have an injured and bedridden police detective going out of his mind with boredom in a hospital room who decides to research the life and times of Richard III after looking at his portrait on a postcard. Not a book to pick up if character development or dialogue are what makes or breaks a book for you, or rather silly coincidences, but if you can put all that aside there's some decent satire of the historical fiction genre, and as best I can tell the author seems to have done her research.
    • 4/5
      This was a very clever and very well written little book. It felt much more urgent than a bed-ridden, amateur historian driven tale should have, and was much more exciting than I expected. That takes a lot of talent.
    • 4/5
      One of the better books in the genre (immobilized detective). In this case they try to solve the mystery surrounding the disappearance of the nephews of Richard III. The way the research is done is very true to how academic researchers go about their process, but there are certainly knocks on historical writers and their biases. This is very interesting when police are also known for having pig-headed bias in investigating crimes. It is certainly the pot calling the kettle black. Still, it is a very good read and covers all the bases in its investigation of the disappearance.
    • 5/5
      Brilliant. A mystery and historical rolled into one and done so well. Tey makes quite a case for the innocence of Richard III. I'm tracking down her other novels.
    • 5/5
      Inspector Alan Grant of Scotland Yard, recuperating in the hospital, becomes fascinated with the portrait of Richard III that bears no resemblance to the evil hunchback, murderer of the young princes. Could such a noble face actually belong to one of the world's most heinous villains -- one who would murder children to secure the crown? Or was Richard really the victim--slandered by others. Grant determines to find out once and for all, what kind of man Richard III was and who killed the Little Princes in the Tower. This was a fascinating twist on the historical mystery--a definite 5 out of 5.
    • 4/5
      I luuuuuuurved this book when I first read it--high school?--and was CONVINCED that Richard III was horribly wronged and SO EXCITED to take a class in English history in college, and then I saw something shiny and forgot all about it.

      Upon re-read, the book's argument is less convincing.* A mock-trial of Richard III for the murder of his nephews was conducted in the 70s with three Supreme Court justices as officiants, and did find that there wasn't sufficient evidence to convict Richard of the crime. There remain, however, significant gaps between the facts of the mystery (ha), and the surety with which "The Daughter of Time" makes accusatiions. Hurray for fiction and for filling those gaps convincingly, at least for a teenager.

      *I also happen to be older.
    • 4/5
      Apparently Josephine Tey normally wrote mysteries. Not a big mystery fan, myself -- especially if there are multiple murders involved -- but Tey's writing is intriguing and compelling enough that I may make an exception for her.

      This mystery is more of a historical puzzle, which is why I picked it up. I love those questions historical figures have left in the cloth of our reality, and I enjoy the quest to solve them. This particular mystery has to do with the Princes in the Towers, who were murdered around the beginning of the Tudor reign in Europe. Apparently it's commonly accepted that Richard III, last of the Plantagenet dynasty, killed them.

      Using the device of an injured policeman bored with his hospital stay, Tey examines the evidence for and against Richard III murdering his nephews and looks at other possible murderers.

      It's a great book, and does what I think all great books examining history should do -- makes the reader want to know more. I've been researching the Plantagenet's and early Tudors since I read this book.
    • 4/5
      This book is part of the Young Man's school year 2012-2013 summer reading. We listen to it in the car on our way up and back from our vacation. I believe I have read this book before, but it was so long ago that I only really remembered Grant laying in the hospital bed. I think this is a good starter book for kids (people?) who will be writing history papers. I think it is probably good for people who are reading history as well. It is a good illustration of a couple of concepts:
      -people are lazy or busy and will not delve into primary research themselves. They may also not have the access.
      -bias must be understood. In this book, bias and hearsay infect a well respected author's work.
      -sources such as accounts of where money was spent are excellent sources of research, because they usually are accurate
      -watch out for hearsay. Hearsay has bias. Look at primary sources

      The Lancaster/York War of the Roses aspect was a little unclear to me. I did notice that, despite Richard III's efforts to put that feud behind the country, the lingering effects went into Henry VIII's reign (as if that guy needed more problems).

      A thin book, but not a quick read and I think that having the book to hand to re-read (with eyes) some of the quotes was useful.
    • 4/5
      A wonderful read for a weekend spent largely in airports, this unconventional detective novel lived up to the hype. Must-read for history nerds, and could potentially be a fun, not-too-didactic primer in critical reading for the classroom (in a world with students who aren't scared away by the maddeningly complex chronology of the War of the Roses. It's just A Song of Ice and Fire without dragons, mmkay?)
    • 5/5
      Fascinating book. Overturns common knowledge about Richard III's villainy. A detective undertakes careful research into known facts vs. Shakespeare's portrayal. Very well-written page-turner--I couldn't put it down.

    Book preview

    The Daughter of Time - Josephine Tey

    Chapter 1

    line

    Grant lay on his high white cot and stared at the ceiling. Stared at it with loathing. He knew by heart every last minute crack on its nice clean surface. He had made maps of the ceiling and gone exploring on them; rivers, islands, and continents. He had made guessing games of it and discovered hidden objects; faces, birds, and fishes. He had made mathematical calculations of it and rediscovered his childhood; theorems, angles, and triangles. There was practically nothing else he could do but look at it. He hated the sight of it.

    He had suggested to The Midget that she might turn his bed around a little so that he could have a new patch of ceiling to explore. But it seemed that that would spoil the symmetry of the room, and in hospitals symmetry ranked just a short head behind cleanliness and a whole length in front of Godliness. Anything out of the parallel was hospital profanity. Why didn’t he read? she asked. Why didn’t he go on reading some of those expensive brand-new novels that his friends kept on bringing him?

    There are far too many people born into the world, and far too many words written. Millions and millions of them pouring from the presses every minute. It’s a horrible thought.

    You sound constipated, said The Midget.

    The Midget was Nurse Ingham, and she was in sober fact a very nice five-feet-two, with everything in just proportion. Grant called her The Midget to compensate himself for being bossed around by a piece of Dresden china which he could pick up in one hand. When he was on his feet, this is to say. It was not only that she told him what he might or might not do, but she dealt with his six-feet-odd with an off-hand ease that Grant found humiliating. Weights meant nothing, apparently, to The Midget. She tossed mattresses around with the absent-minded grace of a plate spinner. When she was off duty he was attended to by The Amazon, a goddess with arms like the limb of a beech tree. The Amazon was Nurse Darroll, who came from Gloucestershire and was homesick each daffodil season. (The Midget came from Lytham St. Anne’s, and there was no daffodil nonsense about her.) She had large soft hands and large soft cow’s eyes and she always looked very sorry for you, but the slightest physical exertion set her breathing like a suction-pump. On the whole Grant found it even more humiliating to be treated as a dead weight than to be treated as if he were no weight at all.

    Grant was bed-borne, and a charge on The Midget and The Amazon, because he had fallen through a trap-door. This, of course, was the absolute in humiliation; compared with which the heavings of The Amazon and the light slingings of The Midget were a mere corollary. To fall through a trap-door was the ultimate in absurdity; pantomimic, bathetic, grotesque. At the moment of his disappearance from the normal level of perambulation he had been in hot pursuit of Benny Skoll, and the fact that Benny had careened round the next corner slap into the arms of Sergeant Williams provided the one small crumb of comfort in an intolerable situation.

    Benny was now away for three years, which was very satisfactory for the lieges, but Benny would get time off for good behaviour. In hospitals there was no time off for good behaviour.

    Grant stopped staring at the ceiling, and slid his eyes sideways at the pile of books on his bedside table; the gay expensive pile that The Midget had been urging on his attention. The top one, with the pretty picture of Valetta in unlikely pink, was Lavinia Fitch’s annual account of a blameless heroine’s tribulations. In view of the representation of the Grand Harbour on the cover, the present Valerie or Angela or Cecile or Denise must be a naval wife. He had opened the book only to read the kind message that Lavinia had written inside.

    The Sweat and the Furrow was Silas Weekley being earthly and spade-conscious all over seven hundred pages. The situation, to judge from the first paragraph, had not materially changed since Silas’s last book: mother lying-in with her eleventh upstairs, father laid-out after his ninth downstairs, eldest son lying to the Government in the cow-shed, eldest daughter lying with her lover in the hayloft, everyone else lying low in the barn. The rain dripped from the thatch, and the manure steamed in the midden. Silas never omitted the manure. It was not Silas’s fault that its steam provided the only uprising element in the picture. If Silas could have discovered a brand of steam that steamed downwards, Silas would have introduced it.

    Under the harsh shadows and highlights of Silas’s jacket was an elegant affair of Edwardian curlicues and Baroque nonsense, entitled Bells on Her Toes. Which was Rupert Rouge being arch about vice. Rupert Rouge always seduced you into laughter for the first three pages. About Page Three you noticed that Rupert had learned from that very arch (but of course not vicious) creature George Bernard Shaw that the easiest way to sound witty was to use that cheap and convenient method, the paradox. After that you could see the jokes coming three sentences away.

    The thing with a red gun-flash across a night-green cover was Oscar Oakley’s latest. Toughs talking out of the corners of their mouths in synthetic American that had neither the wit nor the pungency of the real thing. Blondes, chromium bars, breakneck chases. Very remarkably bunk.

    The Case of the Missing Tin-Opener, by John James Mark, had three errors of procedure in the first two pages, and had at least provided Grant with a pleasant five minutes while he composed an imaginary letter to its author.

    He could not remember what the thin blue book at the bottom of the pile was. Something earnest and statistical, he thought. Tsetse flies, or calories, or sex behaviour, or something.

    Even in that, you knew what to expect on the next page. Did no one, any more, no one in all this wide world, change their record now and then? Was everyone nowadays thirled to a formula? Authors today wrote so much to a pattern that their public expected it. The public talked about a new Silas Weekley or a new Lavinia Fitch exactly as they talked about a new brick or a new hairbrush. They never said a new book by whoever it might be. Their interest was not in the book but in its newness. They knew quite well what the book would be like.

    It might be a good thing, Grant thought as he turned his nauseated gaze away from the motley pile, if all the presses of the world were stopped for a generation. There ought to be a literary moratorium. Some Superman ought to invent a ray that would stop them all simultaneously. Then people wouldn’t send you a lot of fool nonsense when you were flat on your back, and bossy bits of Meissen wouldn’t expect you to read them.

    He heard the door open, but did not stir himself to look. He had turned his face to the wall, literally and metaphorically.

    He heard someone come across to his bed, and closed his eyes against possible conversation. He wanted neither Gloucestershire sympathy nor Lancashire briskness just now. In the succeeding pause a faint enticement, a nostalgic breath of all the fields of Grasse, teased his nostrils and swam about his brain. He savoured it and considered. The Midget smelt of lavender dusting powder, and The Amazon of soap and iodoform. What was floating expensively about his nostrils was L’Enclos Numéro Cinq. Only one person of his acquaintance used L’Enclos Number Five. Marta Hallard.

    He opened an eye and squinted up at her. She had evidently bent over to see if he was asleep, and was now standing in an irresolute way—if anything Marta did could be said to be irresolute—with her attention on the heap of all too obviously virgin publications on the table. In one arm she was carrying two new books, and in the other a great sheaf of white lilac. He wondered whether she had chosen white lilac because it was her idea of the proper floral offering for winter (it adorned her dressing-room at the theatre from December to March) or whether she had taken it because it would not detract from her black-and-white chic. She was wearing a new hat and her usual pearls; the pearls which he had once been the means of recovering for her. She looked very handsome, very Parisian, and blessedly unhospital-like.

    Did I waken you, Alan?

    No. I wasn’t asleep.

    I seem to be bringing the proverbial coals, she said, dropping the two books alongside their despised brethren. I hope you will find these more interesting than you seem to have found that lot. Didn’t you even try a little teensy taste of our Lavinia?

    I can’t read anything.

    Are you in pain?

    Agony. But it’s neither my leg nor my back.

    What then?

    It’s what my cousin Laura calls ‘the prickles of boredom.’ 

    Poor Alan. And how right your Laura is. She picked a bunch of narcissi out of a glass that was much too large for them, dropped them with one of her best gestures into the washbasin, and proceeded to substitute the lilac. One would expect boredom to be a great yawning emotion, but it isn’t, of course. It’s a small niggling thing.

    Small nothing. It’s like being beaten with nettles.

    Why don’t you take up something?

    Improve the shining hour?

    Improve your mind. To say nothing of your soul and your temper. You might study one of the philosophies. Yoga, or something like that. But I suppose an analytical mind is not the best kind to bring to the consideration of the abstract.

    I did think of going back to algebra. I have an idea that I never did algebra justice, at school. But I’ve done so much geometry on that damned ceiling that I’m a little off mathematics.

    Well, I suppose it is no use suggesting jig-saws to someone in your position. How about cross-words. I could get you a book of them, if you like.

    God forbid.

    You could invent them, of course. I have heard that that is more fun than solving them.

    Perhaps. But a dictionary weighs several pounds. Besides, I always did hate looking up something in a reference book.

    Do you play chess? I don’t remember. How about chess problems? White to play and mate in three moves, or something like that.

    My only interest in chess is pictorial.

    Pictorial?

    Very decorative things, knights and pawns and whatnot. Very elegant.

    "Charming. I could bring you along a set to play with. All right, no chess. You could do some academic investigating. That’s a sort of mathematics. Finding a solution to an unsolved problem."

    Crime, you mean? I know all the case-histories by heart. And there is nothing more that can be done about any of them. Certainly not by someone who is flat on his back.

    I didn’t mean something out of the files at the Yard. I meant something more—what’s the word?—something classic. Something that has puzzled the world for ages.

    As what, for instance?

    Say, the casket letters.

    "Oh, not Mary Queen of Scots!"

    Why not? asked Marta, who like all actresses saw Mary Stuart through a haze of white veils.

    I could be interested in a bad woman but never in a silly one.

    Silly? said Marta in her best lower-register Electra voice.

    "Very silly."

    Oh, Alan, how can you!

    If she had worn another kind of headdress no one would ever have bothered about her. It’s that cap that seduces people.

    You think she would have loved less greatly in a sunbonnet?

    She never loved greatly at all, in any kind of bonnet.

    Marta looked as scandalised as a lifetime in the theatre and an hour of careful make-up allowed her to.

    Why do you think that?

    Mary Stuart was six feet tall. Nearly all out-size women are sexually cold. Ask any doctor.

    And as he said it he wondered why, in all the years since Marta had first adopted him as a spare escort when she needed one, it had not occurred to him to wonder whether her notorious level-headedness about men had something to do with her inches. But Marta had not drawn any parallels; her mind was still on her favourite queen.

    At least she was a martyr. You’ll have to allow her that.

    Martyr to what?

    Her religion.

    The only thing she was a martyr to was rheumatism. She married Darnley without the Pope’s dispensation, and Bothwell by Protestant rites.

    In a moment you’ll be telling me she wasn’t a prisoner!

    The trouble with you is that you think of her in a little room at the top of a castle, with bars on the windows and a faithful old attendant to share her prayers with her. In actual fact she had a personal household of sixty persons. She complained bitterly when it was reduced to a beggarly thirty, and nearly died of chagrin when it was reduced to two male secretaries, several women, an embroiderer, and a cook or two. And Elizabeth had to pay for all that out of her own purse. For twenty years she paid, and for twenty years Mary Stuart hawked the crown of Scotland round Europe to anyone who would start a revolution and put her back on the throne that she had lost; or, alternatively, on the one Elizabeth was sitting on.

    He looked at Marta and found that she was smiling.

    Are they a little better now? she asked.

    Are what better?

    The prickles.

    He laughed.

    Yes. For a whole minute I had forgotten about them. That is at least one good thing to put down to Mary Stuart’s account!

    How do you know so much about Mary?

    I did an essay about her in my last year at school.

    And didn’t like her, I take it.

    Didn’t like what I found out about her.

    You don’t think her tragic, then.

    Oh, yes, very. But not tragic in any of the ways that popular belief makes her tragic. Her tragedy was that she was born a queen with the outlook of a suburban housewife. Scoring off Mrs. Tudor in the next street is harmless and amusing; it may lead you into unwarrantable indulgence in hire-purchase, but it affects only yourself. When you use the same technique on kingdoms the result is disastrous. If you are willing to put a country of ten million people in pawn in order to score off a royal rival, then you end by being a friendless failure. He lay thinking about it for a little. She would have been a wild success as a mistress at a girls’ school.

    Beast!

    I meant it nicely. The staff would have liked her, and all the little girls would have adored her. That is what I meant about her being tragic.

    Ah, well. No casket letters, it seems. What else is there? The Man in the Iron Mask?

    I can’t remember who that was, but I couldn’t be interested in anyone who was being coy behind some tinplate. I couldn’t be interested in anyone at all unless I could see his face.

    Ah, yes. I forgot your passion for faces. The Borgias had wonderful faces. I should think they would provide a little mystery or two for you to dabble in if you looked them up. Or there was Perkin Warbeck, of course. Imposture is always fascinating. Was he or wasn’t he? A lovely game. The balance can never come down wholly on one side or the other. You push it over and up it comes again, like one of those weighted toys.

    The door opened and Mrs. Tinker’s homely face appeared in the aperture surmounted by her still more homely and historic hat. Mrs. Tinker had worn the same hat since first she began to do for Grant, and he could not imagine her in any other. That she did possess another one he knew, because it went with something that she referred to as me blue. Her blue was an occasional affair, in both senses, and never appeared at 19 Tenby Court. It was worn with a ritualistic awareness, and having been worn it was used in the event as a yardstick by which to judge the proceedings. (Did you enjoy it, Tink? What was it like? Not worth putting on me blue for.) She had worn it to Princess Elizabeth’s wedding, and to various other royal functions, and had indeed figured in it for two flashing seconds in a newsreel shot of the Duchess of Kent cutting a ribbon, but to Grant it was a mere report; a criterion of the social worth of an occasion. A thing was or was not worth putting on me blue for.

    I ‘eard you ‘ad a visitor, said Mrs. Tinker, "and I was all set to go away again

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