That concertina was a wonder in its way. The handles that was on it first was wore out long ago, and he'd made new ones of braided rope yarn. And the bellows was patched in more places than a cranberry picker's overalls.
My eyes have been betraying me since I turned sixty.
The Surgeon's Daughter is an imperial text, though a curiously untriumphalist one.
The Surgeon's Daughter
Out in the front yard, a jumble of iris japonica, Chinese epimedium and carex leaves covers one wall, a plant wall experiment begun five years ago.
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