At eleven o’clock , Emily went down to the village to fetch the lobsters. The heat unsteadied the air, light shimmered and glanced off leaves and telegraph wires and the flag on the church tower spreading out in a small breeze, then dropping, wavered against the sky, as if it were flapping under water.
She wore an old cotton frock, and meant to change it at the last moment, when the food was all ready and the table laid. Over her bare arms, the warm air flowed, her skirt seemed to divide as she walked, pressed in a hollow between her legs like drapery on a statue. From the wide-open windows of the village school came the sound of a tinny piano. “We’ll rant, and we’ll roar, like true British sailors,” sang all the little girls.
Elizabeth Taylor, the letter-writers (in the collection called “The Blush”)
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