" "You say that the miniature was abstracted from Lady Trafford's jewel-box," said Jonathan, in a loud voice. If he ran less risk of being blown over, he stood a much greater chance of being washed off, or stifled. There was a gentle rustling of skirts. In the end he broke his own heart along with your mother's. “Poor little Miniver! What can she be but what she is?. Yet he’s been here for six years, and he’s as much a fixture as that sham mahogany sideboard. He devoured her with his eyes too, his shyness not able to disguise his furtive glances at the curvy outline of her breast against the imitation silk, his memory still exquisitely tortured by her movements in the miniskirt. He was only a younger son, and you know what trouble we had.
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