Coachy shook his head sadly. ‘That daun’t make sense. If I’d a sister, would I call her my dear love? No, that I woon’t. And if I’d a dear love I woon’t call her sister, nuther.’ His moonlit face creased in an elfish smile. ‘I’d call her my jolly, I’d call her my dimple, I’d call her my primy lass. Doxy and deary I’d call her, and heartsease, and gillyvor, and marnen glory. I’d see her eat hearty and step pretty, and I’d see Goodman Time run past and never mark her. Where be Coachy’s fine fillikin, he’d say; for I’ll have my due of her, be she never so brisky. She be gone that way, I’d tell him, and this way, and that way. And I’d send him down one road after t’other, the sorry geck, and see him lose his labour . . . God-a-mercy, neighbour, and give you good night, what little be left of it. There baint above an admiral’s pint, by the moon’s look.’