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T’weren’t fitting, we knew that. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. Guiding this man of hers over the troubled sea of life had engraved these lines. She had been built for canvas and oil-lamps, and this new thingumajig that kept her nose snoring at eight knots when normally she was able to boil along at ten, and these unblinking things they called lamps (that neither smoked nor smelled), irked and threatened to ruin her temper. ‘But you said—’ Gerald tutted. "Hell's curses!" roared Jonathan.
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This video was uploaded to adiszena.com on 06-06-2024 03:37:40
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