Clean Monday, a holiday in Greece, marks the start of the Lenten season.

The gate suddenly grated. It was Lestiboudois; he came to fetch his spade, that he had forgotten. He recognised Justin climbing over the wall, and at last knew who was the culprit who stole his potatoes.

“Well, let's hope you're right, darling. In the meantime,” said Kipper, “if I don't get that whisky-and-soda soon, I shall disintegrate. Would you mind if I went in search of it, Mrs Travers?” “It's the very thing I was about to suggest myself. Dash along and drink your fill, my unhappy young stag at eve.” “I'm feeling rather like a restorative, too,” said Bobbie. “Me also,” I said, swept along on the tide of the popular movement. “Though I would advise,” I said, when we were outside, “making it port. More authority. We'll look in on Swordfish. He will provide.” We found Pop Glossop in his pantry polishing silver, and put in our order. He seemed a little surprised at the inrush of such a multitude, but on learning that our tongues were hanging out obliged with a bottle of the best […]

night soil