As he crossed the threshold, he was instantly overpowered by the sickly-sweet stench of cabbage and feces.  His mother looked up at him guiltily before chiding him: "Get out of here!  Can't you see I'm on the pot!?"  He made a few concessions, heaving his shoulders plaintively in the process, before quickly darting away, and as he finished the hallway the return of blossoms to his nostrils reminded him to stop procrastinating and start his book-without the nagging need of his mother's council.  Looking to his right, out of the open-air causeway that led back to the kitchen, his eyes filled with a poignant, tearful glint that confirmed his sincerity.  The apple tree swayed as it goaded him on.

(pg. 83, Bantam press 2001)