Mama scolded, when I returned and related the tale of my visit to Parham. “It was that or let them believe I had gone to steal Lord Weylin’s vases. In any case, it is over, Mama, and now we may have the exquisite pleasure of turning Steptoe off.” “You say they knew all along he was a thief? Fancy their not letting us know. He might have robbed us blind.” “We have been paying him an exorbitant salary, but that is our own fault. He has not filched the silver so far as I know.” “I wonder he ever condescended to come to a house with so little worth stealing,” Mama said. “Not that I mean we are poor, but after Parham, or even the Pakenham, he would have slim pickings. I daresay the rich families all know what he is, and are in league not to hire him.” While we were discussing the matter, Brodagan came sailing into the saloon, black eyes scowling. “The luncheon meat is charred to cinders, meladies,” she announced with gleeful misery. There is little dearer to Brodagan’s Irish heart than a catastrophe.
What do You think about Gather Ye Rosebuds (1993)?
