Yes, come in, come in. Take your shoes off there.
I know, it is big isn’t it? You should see the kitchen.
Yes, it’s by so-and-so. You’ve not heard of him?
No, neither has my wife.
Yes, come in, come in. Take your shoes off there.
I know, it is big isn’t it? You should see the kitchen.
Yes, it’s by so-and-so. You’ve not heard of him?
No, neither has my wife.
No splinters on the smoothest, broadest planks of oak in the John Soane’s museum. Eyes lift to Fragonard and Wateau, as a brooch falls among the breathless still. Eyes swiftly turn to Mme Pompadour’s favourite service.
Gothick Ghosts of brooches drop. Too couth to scurry and retrieve. So will lay with shiny buckles and an undone Boucher.