Bunting the vicar.

And using indigo, make it anti microbial.

Bunting began to laugh.

I could have sworn said Mr. Bunting. The candle! said Mr. Bunting.

Mr. Bunting thought it over.

Mrs. Bunting came out on the landing.

I'm dear me! It's all cypher, Bunting.

There are no diagrams? asked Mr. Bunting.

Then Mrs. Bunting scrutinised the waste paper basket and Mr. Bunting opened the lid of the coal scuttle.

A sailor, I should judge, said Mr. Bunting.

He's coming back, Bunting! he said, rushing in.

Five is blue, seven is yellow, eight is chartreuse, nine is indigo, OK?

Then Mrs. Bunting turned back the window curtains, and Mr. Bunting looked up the chimney and probed it with the poker.

Surrender! cried Mr. Bunting, fiercely, and then stooped amazed.

Who lit the candle? The drawer! said Mrs. Bunting.

Yes, said Mr. Bunting, and the doctor repeated it.

Disgraceful! said Mr. Bunting, within. 'Disgraceful,' said Mr. Henfrey.

At that sound Mr. Bunting was nerved to abrupt action.

Bring the candle, said Mr. Bunting, and led the way.

Good heavens! said Mr. Bunting, hesitating between two horrible alternatives.

Iping was gay with bunting, and everybody was in gala dress.

And in fact, cotton would take up to 18 dips in indigo to achieve a color this dark.

It's really, said Mr. Bunting with judicial emphasis, a most remarkable story. gt

At that precise moment Mr. Cuss and Mr. Bunting were in the parlour.

For half a minute, perhaps, they stood gaping, then Mrs. Bunting went across the room and looked behind the screen, while Mr. Bunting, by a kindred impulse, peered under the desk.

Gripping the poker firmly, he rushed into the room, closely followed by Mrs. Bunting.

I can't, said Mr. Bunting, his voice rising I tell you, sir, I will not.

As it did so, the candle Mrs. Bunting was carrying from the study flickered and flared.

Mr. Bunting flushed slightly and brought his face nearer, apparently finding some difficulty with his glasses.

They are made from handpicked organic Zimbabwean cotton that has been shuttle loomed and then hand dipped in natural indigo 24 times.

I'll find you a place. I'd rather glance through the volumes first, said Mr. Bunting, still wiping.

As soon as she felt assured of this, she aroused the Rev. Mr. Bunting as quietly as possible.

In Champaran, we had a Shodh Yatra and we were walking in the land where Gandhiji went to hear about the tragedy, pain of indigo growers.

Someone sniffed as he did so. One thing is indisputable, said Bunting, drawing up a chair next to that of Cuss.

We've thrashed that out, Bunting. And just now there's these books Ah! here's some of what I take to be Greek!

He stood there in the hall undecided what to do, and Mrs. Bunting, her face white and intent, crept slowly downstairs after him.

Mr. Bunting was standing in the window engaged in an attempt to clothe himself in the hearth rug and a West Surrey Gazette.

Of course, said Mr. Bunting, taking out and wiping his spectacles and feeling suddenly very uncomfortable for he had no Greek left in his mind worth talking about

Mrs. Bunting, it seems, woke up suddenly in the stillness that comes before the dawn, with the strong impression that the door of their bedroom had opened and closed.

Mr. Bunting was now in the hall, and through the crack of the door he could see the desk and the open drawer and a candle burning on the desk.

From the moment when the Invisible Man screamed with rage and Mr. Bunting made his memorable flight up the village, it became impossible to give a consecutive account of affairs in Iping.

Haysman's meadow was gay with a tent, in which Mrs. Bunting and other ladies were preparing tea, while, without, the Sunday school children ran races and played games under the noisy guidance of the curate and the Misses Cuss and Sackbut.