By Richard J Trudeau
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Additional resources for Dots and lines
Do sit down, Miss Meshle,” invited the other one, Mrs. Fitzsimmons, the housekeeper, offering me the chair closest to the fire. At the table with the two of them, I sipped, briefly answering their inquiries about my health, after which they resumed their conversation. Mrs. ” He had been assisted by “a wench in one of them French clinging gowns” who lay on an examiningcouch while he had her stare at the usual shiny object – in this case, a candle-flame – and flicked his hands at her face as if sprinkling her with his “vital principle,” then made the customary magnetic passes over her entire person.
Looking towards the source of this ungrammatical statement, I located an office – rather an octopus affair, with pneumatic payment-and-receipt tubes running into it from all areas of the store – evidently the proprietor’s office, elevated in the emporium’s farthest corner. Through its large windows, presumably meant for keeping an eye on commerce, I could see Ebenezer Finch haranguing his son. “. . sort of colours one would expect from a screaming anarchist,” the father was blustering as he stabbed an accusing finger at his son.
Some – some evil I could not yet name. Something about the stay-lacing. What sort of man would attack a woman with a weapon derived from a cane – the sort of stick used to thrash schoolchildren – and a corset? Intimate feminine apparel by which upper-class females were compressed to fit into their ridiculous dresses, making them ornamental to society, prone to fainting spells, and susceptible to internal injuries and death? It was largely in order to escape strait-lacing that I had given brothers Mycroft and Sherlock the slip.
Dots and lines by Richard J Trudeau