Kit Bramley came up the park path with his tongue on his tooth, testing it. Wobbly at breakfast. Nearly-out by supper. Frost had got into the grass. At the top of the hill the glasshouse stood steamed up and glowing, like a lamp left on under a blanket. Dad shouldered the heavy door open. "In quick. Don't let the warm out." Hot wet air came over Kit's cold ears like a flannel. Tonight was the night. He had brought a matchbox to keep it in.