She would have Phemy see that she had gathered from him no figs or grapes, only thorns and thistles.
Like all thistles this will become a weed if not kept down with a firm hand.
True, a thousand thistles do not make a rose; but with destiny this logic does not hold.
There were thistles in everybody's crop, and after all it was a good thing to have begotten a girl.
It was ...