Rules are for established things, like the pieces and positions of a game. In one angle of the room stood a disused fire-place, with a rusty grate and broken chimney-piece; in the other there was a sort of box, contrived between the wall and the boards, that looked like an apology for a cupboard. "Not a syllable!" answered the carpenter, angrily. It seemed to show a want of affection, to be a deliberate and unmerited disregard, to justify the reprisal of being hurt. The family always managed to make it home for supper, even though it was a dying custom. Doesn’t matter a bit to me.
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