" "Poor soul!" ejaculated her son. She donned her fuzzy slippers and traipsed downstairs, the welcoming smell of coffee beckoning her, the sound of Looney Toons music barely audible from the television set. ’ ‘Comment? How will it serve you to kill me?’ ‘I do not need to kill you. ‘There is no one who could have told him this. At last, after a long rumbling journey in a stuffy windowless van, she reached Canongate Prison—for Holloway had its quota already. She may address me as “Grandfather” if she chooses, since I’m obliged to accept her in that capacity.
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