She could still remember herself at age five, staring knives and daggers at the men who came into the small yarn shop, under pretense of business but really just to leer. “Umph!” he said, and regarded his letter doubtfully before consigning it to the pillar-box. He taught her how to read and write in Latin and Greek, often rewarding her for her efforts with a flower or a trinket. When I think of those ateliers of ours, the art jargon, the decadents with their flamboyant talk I long for a twoedged sword and a minute of Divinity. We were talking about the suffrage—and I rather scoffed. “Have you not heard?” she said. You can pay me when we return.
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