'Ross, we've had such an excitement while you were away. We've found
the date in the roof, and it's 1570.'
'Oh, really,' he drawled.
After that I gave it up. If 1570 wouldn't melt an iceberg, nothing
would, so we adjourned to the hall for coffee, and now there sits on one
side of the fire, surrounded by ice and snow fields, something which was
once my twin, while I sit on the other writing my novel, trying to get
thawed, pretending I don't mind a bit.