I found down at the side of the house the remains of what must have once been a kitchen garden. Everything was choked with weeds and scutch grass, but the outlines of bed and drill were still there.

He looked round the poor room, at the distempered walls, and the bad engravings in meretricious frames, the crinkly paper and wax flowers on the chiffonier; and he thought of a room like Father Bryan's, with panelling, with cut glass, with tulips in silver pots, such a room as he had hoped to have for his own.

Then the man told Mamet what he fed the anaconda: pre-dead chickens.

It would be so much faster to have her read webnovels, but my sister isn't tech savvy and doesn't have a smartphone, so books it is.