The Somnambule's Crime
Freudian
Somerset
A yellow motor car yawns doll forests like the ones which mahogany end tables dream under pressure. So there were three jonquils on a napkin and everything was nudging forward to catch an eyeful of the lemon exhaust. There was a delightful futility to the white girls and the silent rooting of their long cool backs remained the one impediment to cleaning the church windows. And—precisely where my foot first encountered Jesus— a violet rope ladder in an afternoon snowstorm.