[NaNoWriMo] Odds and Ends

Some excerpts from my fevered brain:

In an action so indicative of Anne after her return to Macao that her intimates would liken it to breathing, she brought a small, white fist to her torso just under the breast bone, holding it there a while before she could gather her wits about her. Beneath the layers of paramatta silk, crinoline, cotton sateen and linen the long links of a locket lay buried between the narrow valley of her breasts. Beneath the gold and glass lay a small likeness done in watercolor, sketched to the specifications of memory by Cassandra’s deft hands while Anne had critiqued and remarked on the progress. In the end, both girls had been satisfied with the disheveled man of remarkable beauty (which Cassandra thought greatly afflicted, but did not venture to say so aloud) that would spend his days between Anne’s skin and cotton shift. In her diary that evening, Anne had simply written: C. has caught the likeness of Robin’s physiognomy with such cleverness that I feel I will not ever lose the memories of the biblio. As per Shangyin: Never let your heart open with the spring flowers: One inch of love is an inch of ashes.

And tonight's:

Sir Gordon’s hospitality – save the addition of two prized deerhounds, Castor and Pollux, who had the run of the place – was both generous and unceremonious. Although everyone dressed for dinner, it was without the stiff formality Anne knew from Chrysanthemum House or London. Her white on white tambored muslin, though less full than that of the adult guests, was both appropriate and timely. Despite Breadon’s assertions to the draftiness of Roseward, the evening was quite warm as the evening storm necessitated closing the windows against the rain. To amuse themselves for the evening, Trebick had had a fire stoked and one of the gentleman guests – Anne thought he had been introduced as a Mr. Bere – had volunteered his services in the manufacture of jam tarts with iron forms native to the castle. She was sharing hers (somewhat unwillingly) with Pollux on the hopes that he was as resilient as his namesake, when Mr. Ramsay, a neighboring landowner, started in again on the tale of the Wish Hound.