“I don’t like Chimney Sweep. The fisherman says that he is good, but I don’t like him. Today, for example, he came up and said: “Aren’t the pipes clogged, Book Girl?” I can clean it. I looked at him: he’s a fool. He smiles and wrinkles from one foot to another. Always give him pipes, but where to get them, one wonders. “You should get out of here,” I said. “I don’t have any pipes.” “Yes,” he insisted. - Fallopian. Maybe we can clean it? He chuckled, as if he had said something terribly funny, and galloped away...”