E. F. Benson,
M.O.M.
(1913)
“ Henry Attwood deposited his long, big limbs in a chair that only just held him. His ruddy boyish face, with its blue eyes and crisp curling hair, showed like a sort of sun through the clouds of tobacco smoke which he puffed from a briar-wood pipe. Outside, a sudden flood of wind-vexed rain beat on the window, and he jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "I hate a wet Saturday night," he said, "because it drives my lambs into the pubs. But they've got to learn to stand on their own feet, bless them! Well, about My Own Mixture. It's going to be made chiefly of camomile and salt. ”
