Daniel sits companionably with his father-in-law on the Freyasgarth lawn, making a daisy-chain for his daughter. The fat pink-tipped flowers are scattered across his black thighs where she has strewn them. The two men sit in deckchairs on the grass and watch the young girl, barefoot in a sky-blue dress, strut and pirouette and swoop in front of them. Her reddish-gold hair falls in a silky curtain about her calm, round face. There are two ways of making daisy-chains. One is to pierce the end of each stalk, and thread the next flower through the green until its head catches. The other is to select a tough daisy with a powerful stalk and thread it through the heads of several others, piercing each at the nape and pushing up through the golden pollen circle, making a thicker, more luscious petalled rod, all pink and white and feathery. Daniel made a bracelet by this method, but Mary exclaimed at the crudity and extravagance, and he is now making a long green garland, studded intermittently with florets. It goes slowly: split stems curl back and are discarded. Mary runs up and down, bringing handfuls of flowers. Bill says she is denuding his lawn and making it look conventional and respectable.
    'There'll be new ones tomorrow,' says Mary. 'There always are. The more you pick, the more they come.'

A.S. Byatt