She had time in the afternoons to do crewelwork and embroidery, no longer occupied by the constant spinning of wool. ’ ‘A pox on the creature,’ swore Mrs Sindlesham, clenching and unclenching her stiff fingers. You are one of the Immortals. You have watched all the uncouth creations of my brain come sprawling out upon the canvas, and besides, we have been companions. “Well, you certainly did very well at tea,” she remarked.
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