“What’s your girl like, then?”
“Eh? Wot?”
“That letter you’re writin’. Go on, tell us what she’s like.”
“Aw, my lady, she’s smashin’. Mad, too.”
“Mad? How mad? Does she throw pans and ‘oller?”
“Nah, mad about flowers. An’ clothes. An’ flowers on clothes. She paints roses on ‘er stockin’s and ties wreaths in her cloudy red ‘air…”
“An’ by cloudy, you mean…”
“Sticks out in waves every which way. Ain’t ever lied flat, s’far’s I can remember. Gives kisses of its own, it does.”
“Sounds… strikin’.”