When the girl returned, some hours later, she carried a
tray, with a cup of fragrant tea steaming on it; and a plate piled up with very
hot buttered toast, cut thick, very brown on both sides, with the butter
running through the holes in great golden drops, like honey from the honeycomb.
The smell of that buttered toast simply talked to Toad, and with no uncertain
voice; talked of warm kitchens, of breakfasts on bright frosty mornings, of
cosy parlour firesides on winter evenings, when one's ramble was over and
slippered feet were propped on the fender, of the purring of contented cats,
and the twitter of sleepy canaries.
Kenneth Graham, from Wind in the Willows
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