I, too, for my part, have visions of her taking all household
cares off my shoulders, mending, cooking, making my blouses and her own
clothes, and playing Beethoven to us in the evenings when our work is
done. In her spare time we anticipate that she will write books and
plays that will make her famous.
We have visions of these things, I repeat--generally when The Kid is in
bed asleep with her hands folded on her breast in a devotional
attitude, a cherubic smile on her lips. There are, however, other
times when I hope for nothing more exacting than the day to come when
she will keep herself clean.
I often wonder where all the stickiness comes from that she manages to
communicate from her person to the handles of doors, backs of chairs
and other such places where you are most likely to set your hand
unconsciously. Henry has a theory about it oozing from the pores of
her skin, and says she conceals some inexhaustible sources of grime
which is constantly rising to the surface. In which case you can't
entirely blame The Kid.
Under the circumstances, however, we feel that she ought to practise
more restraint. Always when she is most thickly coated in dirt and
varnished with the glutinous substance already referred to, does she
most strongly feel the calls of affection. Then is the moment when she
flings her arms about Henry and presses long kisses on his clean
collar, or gently caresses the entire surface of my new blouse.
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