A Memoir of a Melon House

One day toward the end of summer, when Kate was too unwell to drag herself up to the big house, she asked me to go and spend the afternoon with cousin Joseph. Cousin Joseph sat in his usual sea, behind the darkened windows, his fat hands folded on his protuber and waistcoat,. The near on a huge dish of fat melon, the fattest melon I'd ever seen. In picking it, what had the dam scoundrel done but drop it? Drop it, crash on the sharp spout of a watering paw, so that it received a deep gash in its firm pale retundity. It was henceforth but a bruised, ruined