ARCH MCKNIGHT
FROM HELMSFORD
["It wasn't just the coat of arms that was treasonous, but
the entire estate seemed somehow perverse. The eaglets had
sat down for tea, and some midden-mast chore-maid was bending
over to serve. Quite a fetching sight, though no one said a word.
Cleavage the size of Rhode Island - perhaps that gets across the
idea. An ideal situation for an idiot-savant to say something rude
and get away with it. 'Excuse me, ma'am, but this back-breaking
work has bent me over and weakened my bearing. I need to rest,
can you turn my bed?' Well, something like that.
-
The rooster from the other edge of the county was counting
beads and churning his stomach free of jellybeans and taffy;
he seemed to take solace in the fact that he'd already sired here
five children with a few different lassies. There's a book or a
story at least in here somewhere : let me see - D'Arcy, or a
Madame Bovary?
-
Footwear; that too was beyond discussion; Big John Falconetti,
having lost a leg in the Crimean War, made no bones to be not
discussed. No talk of shoes, forevermore. Or quote this
raven : Nevermore."]
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