“Seed biscuits and milk! I hated Mrs. Mullet's seed biscuits the way Saint Paul hated sin. Perhaps even more so. I wanted to clamber up onto the table, and with a sausage on the end of a fork as my scepter, shout in my best Laurence Olivier voice, 'Will no one rid us of this turbulent pastry cook?”

“How dare you give the poor woman trouble over those nasty biscuits! If you made biscuits worth eating, sir, perhaps she wouldn’t throw them to the fish!”He blinked his eyes in astonishment. “Biscuits worth eating? I’ll have you know, madam, that I bake the best biscuit on the high seas!”“That’s not saying much, considering that ship’s biscuits are notoriously awful!”“It’s alright, Louisa, you needn’t defend me—“ Sara began.Louisa just ignored her. “Those biscuits were so hard, I could scarcely choke them down. As for that stew—”“Look here, you disrespectful harpy,” the cook said, punctuating his words with loud taps of his cane. “There ain’t nothin’ wrong with Silas Drummond’s stew, and I defy any man—or woman—to make a better one!”

“It goes on, he thought. The internecine hate. Perhaps the seeds are there, in that. They will eat one another at last, and leave the rest of us here and there in the world, still alive. Still enough of us once more to build and hope and make a few simple plans.”

“I hated to hound the guy at the sausage table, but I wanted to learn the difference between saucisson à l'âne, donkey sausage, and saucisson du taureau, bull sausage. That donkey stuff tastes, well, just a little different.”

“...I want my spirituality to rid me of hate, not give me reason for it.”

“Sin, sin! To rid myself of boredom by committing a crime, to break up monotony by deceiving. To sin in order to be a new person, another person. To hate life worse than it hated me. To sin so as not to die.”