‘Fotis was alone in charge. She was preparing the stuffing for some blackpudding, and was mincing the pigs-tripes, some of which stood finely shredded on the sideboard, ready for mixing with a gravy that tickled my nostrils with its succulently wafted steam. She was neatly clad in a linen apron, with a shining scarlet stomacher which gathered her dress up high under her meeting breasts; and she was stirring the stockpot with her rosy little hands moving round and round above it. As she stirred and turned the meat, she herself stirred and vibrated congruously all over her supple body. Her loins softly undulated, and her agile spine swayed and rippled in time, as she placidly stirred the pot.
 I was entranced by the sight, and stood in mute admiration—as did that part of me which so far had not intruded. At last I addressed the girl, “How finely, my dear Fotis, how gaily you stir your buttocks as you stand over the pot. What a honeyed relish I see you getting ready. A happy man, a blessed man, is he that you will let dip finger there.”
  “Be off, you poor fellow,” answered the young chatterbox, never at loss for a repartee. “Be off from my fire-place. Keep your distance. For if the tiniest spark of that heat grazes you, you’ll be scorched to the gizzard, and no one will be able to quench you but myself. For I’m very good at putting a choice spice into pot or bed, and making them both equally stirring.”’