Bealby; A Holiday. Герберт Уэллс

      Perplexity corrugated his features. The stepfather’s permission presented no difficulties, but it was more difficult about the luggage.

      A voice called after him.

      “Yes, Mum?” he said attentive and hopeful. Perhaps—somehow—they wouldn’t want luggage.

      “You’ll want Boots. You’ll have to walk by the caravan, you know. You’ll want some good stout Boots.”

      “All right, Mum,” he said with a sorrowful break in his voice. He waited a few moments but nothing more came. He went on—very slowly. He had forgotten about the boots.

      That defeated him. …

      It is hard to be refused admission to Paradise for the want of a hand-bag and a pair of walking-boots. …