floral oil painting

floral oil painting
ought not to consider poverty a crime.'
'No more I ought,' said she: 'Mr. St. John tells me so too; and I
see I wor wrang- but I've clear a different notion on you now to
what I had. You look a raight down dacent little crater.'
'That will do- I forgive you now. Shake hands.'
She put her floury and horny hand into mine; another and heartier
smile illumined her rough face, and from that moment we were friends.
Hannah was evidently fond of talking. While I picked the fruit, and
she made the paste for the pies, she proceeded to give me sundry
details about her deceased master and mistress, and 'the childer,'
as she called the young people.
floral oil painting
Old Mr. Rivers, she said, was a plain man enough, but a
gentleman, and of as ancient a family as could be found. Marsh End had
belonged to the Rivers ever since it was a house: and it was, she
affirmed, 'aboon two hundred year old- for all it looked but a
small, humble place, naught to compare wi' Mr. Oliver's grand hall
down i' Morton Vale. But she could remember Bill Oliver's father a
journeyman needle-maker; and th' Rivers wor gentry i' th' owd days
o' th' Henrys, as onybody might see by looking into th' registers i'
Morton Church vestry.' Still, she allowed, 'the owd maister was like
floral oil painting