And here against a wall were the plumtrees. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. In another instant, the collision took place. ‘Me and the butler didn’t see eye to eye. We can’t afford to turn our women, our Madonnas, our Saint Catherines, our Mona Lisas, our goddesses and angels and fairy princesses, into a sort of man. Everything was very neat; it had evidently been straightened up and kept for her. Eh? Banging against the old rollers—that'll put some life into us both.
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This video was uploaded to fairlopwaters.info on 16-05-2024 13:42:10
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