Magwitch, the bull-terrier, greets me

At the door, stub-tail wagging, a grin,

If that is possible, on his questionably

Lovable puss. Estella, charming as always:

Come in, and in I come, flowers in hand.

She receives the flowers graciously, takes 

My gloves, scarf, hat, wrap, and soon

We are ensconced in the inner-warmth

Of the sanctum sanctorum, that is to say

The living room, fire crackling in the hearth,

Lusters aglow. Pip pours two whiskies 

And a dry sherry, Magwitch settles himself 

Before the fire, sighs. Pip hands me a whiskey,

Stella, her sherry. Stella, I say, your home is