The downstairs front room of a moderate-sized cottage. There is a wide fireplace, with a heaped-up ashy fire. The parlor is used as a bedroom, and contains a heavy old-fashioned mahogany dressing table, a washstand, and a bedstead whose canopy is missing, so that the handsome posts stand like ruined columns. The room is in an untidy, neglected condition, medicine bottles and sickroom paraphernalia littered about.
If you are a writer, nothing is more confusing than the difference between the things you have to say and the things you are allowed to print. Talking to an intelligent girl, the famous "jeune fille" who is the excuse for the great Hush! Hu [...]
Last year, we had a little house up in the Swiss mountains, for the summer. A friend came to tea: a woman of fifty or so, with her daughter: old friends. "And how are you all?" I asked, as she sat, flushed and rather exasperated after the c [...]
“He looked,” said Mrs. Bircumshaw to Mrs. Gillatt, “he looked like a positive saint: one of the noble sort, you know, that will suffer with head up and with dreamy eyes. I nearly died of laughing.”
She spoke of Mr. Bircumshaw, who darted a [...]