By three o’clock it had risen to eighty-nine. Rosetta predicted another of her turns if the heat did not abate, and sat holding a damp towel to her head at the kitchen table, from time to time muttering expletives. Madeline was in her workroom, as usual, wrestling with swaths of green velvet: the Brownlows’ new winter curtains. And Ethne was noisily, laboriously practicing—what sounded to Cecily like one long, thumping dirge—on the pianoforte.In a white cotton dress with a broad blue sash, Cecily descended the stairs. The dress, once her mother’s, had never appealed to Ethne and thus had come direct to her. Originally, in Madeline’s day, it had had a profusion of lace ruffles running from its high neckline down over the bodice, but Madeline had altered it to fit Cecily’s specifications: a narrower skirt, a flat sailor-style neckline and collar, no lace and a shortened hemline.“You look very pretty, dear,” said Madeline, raising her head. She stood at the cutting table, scissors in hand.
What do You think about The Memory Of Lost Senses?
