Twelve other ferriers took the ferryman across the river to the other side of the river, and they left a candle burning bright in the loft of a dozen daisies.

Up, up, cried the muffet whose spiders belonged to no one but her. The spiders spun webs of guile and guilt for the benefit of the youngest of the twelve noble virtues. A penny worth of indulgence secured an hour of respite in the hostel of Aunt Fanny’s secular imagination–a penny being all she could afford having lost her wad at BINGO three weeks past. Where would you go if you could? Aunt Fanny asked the little muffet. No answer. No answer again. And again. Aunt Fanny returned to snapping peas, and the muffet let bygones be gone bye and bye.

Crying torches of empty faith and virtue illuminated the way to the laundry room. The muffet crawled into the dryer and asked the spider to set the setting to tumble dry. An hour later, the web of intrigue was enormous. And so was the spider.