Thomas Kinkade Victorian Autumn

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'So if you could get young Carrot and that nice Corporal Nobbs to keep an eye out for—'
'No problem.'
For some reason Lady Sybil, keen of eye in every other respect, persisted in thinking of Corporal Nobbs as a cheeky, lovable rascal. It had always puzzled Sam Vimes. It must be the attraction of opposites. The Ram-kins were more highly bred than a hilltop bakery, whereas Corporal Nobbs had been disqualified from the human race for shoving.
As he walked down the street in his cheap cigar out of his pocket. Swamp dragons were becoming a minor nuisance in the city. Lady Ramkin got very angry about it.
People would buy them when they were six inches long and a cute way of lighting fires and then, when they were burning the furniture and leaving corrosive holes in the carpet, the floor and the cellar ceiling underneath it, they'd be shoved out to fend for themselves.
'We rescued him from a blacksmith in,' said Lady Ramkin. 'You'll enjoy it. It's time you met the Right People. You know that.'
He nodded mournfully.
'We shall expect you up at the house at eight o'clock, then,' she said. 'And don't look like that. It'll help you tremendously. You're far too good a man to spend his nights traipsing around dark wet streets. It's time you got on in the world.'
Vimes wanted to say that