THE little maid, Beatrice, as well as Gunning, regarded Marie Léonie with paralysed but bewildered obedience. She was Er Ladyship, a good mark; a foreign Frenchy, bad; extraordinarily efficient about the house and garden and poultry-yard, a matter for mixed feelings. She was fair, not black-avised, a good mark; she was buxom, not skinny, like the real Quality. A bad mark because she was, then, not real Quality; but a qualifiedly good mark because, if you as to ave Quality all about you in the ouse, tis better not to ave real Quality. . . . But on the whole the general feeling was favourable, because like themselves she was floridly blond. It made er uman like. Never you trust a dark woman, and if you marries a dark man e will treat you had. In the English country-side it is like that.
Cabinet-maker Cramp, who was a remnant of the little dark persistent race that once had peopled Sussex, regarded Marie Léonie with distrust that mingled with admiration for the quality of the varnish that she imported from Paris. Proper French Polish that were. He lived in the cottage just across the path on the Common. E couldn’ say as ow e liked the job the Governors give im. He had to patch up and polish with beeswax — not varnish — rough stuff such s is granf’er ad ad. An ad got rid of. Rough ol truck. More ’nundred yeers old. N more!-
He had to take bits of old wood out of one sort of old truck and fit it into missing bits of other old truck. Bought old Moley’s pig — pound boards that had been Little Kingsworth church stalls. The Cahptn ad ad im, Cramp, use’In for all manner of patchin’s up. The Captain had bought, too, ol Miss Cooper’s rabbit utch. Beautifully bevelled the panels was, too, when cleaned up n beeswaxed. Cramp would acknowledge that. Made him match the bevelling in the timber from Kingsworth Church stalls for one of the missing doors, an more of the timber for the patching. Proper job, he, Cramp, had made of it, too; he would say that. N it looked proper when it was finished-a long, low press, with six bevelled doors; beautiful purfling on the edges. Like some of the stuff ls Lordship ad in the Tujer Room at Fittleworth House. More’n a undred yeers old. Three undred. Four. . . . There’s no knowin. N no accountin fer tastes. E would say e ad n eye — the Cahptn ad. Look at a bit of ol rough truck, the Cahptn would, n see it was older than the Monument to Sir Richard Atchison on Tadworth Ill that was set up in the year 1842 to celebrate the glorious victory of Free Trade. So the Monument said. Lug a bit of rough ol truck out of the back of a cow-house where it had been throwed — the Cahptn would. And his, Cramp’s, heart would sink to see the ol mare come back, some days, the cart full of encoops, n leaden pig-trufls, n pewter plates that ad been used to stop up oles in cow-byres.
N off it would all go to Murrikay. Queer place Murrikay must be — full of the leavins of ol England. Pig-troughs, hen-coops, rabbit-hutches, wash-house coppers that no one now had any use for. He loaded em, when he’d scrubbed, and silver — sanded and beeswaxed-n-turpentined em, onto the ol cart, n put to ol mare, n down to station, n on to Southampton n off to New York. Must be a queer place, yon! Hadn’t they no cabinet-makers or ol rough truck of the: own?
Well, it took all sorts to make a world It thank God fer that. He, Cramp, had a good job likely to last im is lifetime because some folks wus queer in the ed. The ol lumber went out yon and his, Cramp’s missus, was gettin together a proper set of goods. A tidy treat their sittin room looked with aspidistras in mahogany tripods, n a Wilton carpet n bamboo cheers n mahogany whatnots. A proper woman Missus Cramp was if sharp in the tongue.
Miss’s Cramp she didn’ give so much fer Er Ladyship. She was agin Foreigners. All German spies they wus. Have no truck with them, she wouldn’t. Oo noo if they wus s much s married. Some says they wus, some says they wusn. But you couldn’ take in Miss’s Cramp. . . . N Quality! What was to show that they were real Quality? Livin how they did wasn’ Quality manners. Quality wus stuck up n wore shiny clothes n had motor-cars n statues n palms n ball — rooms n conservatories. N didn bottle 03 the cider n take the eggs n speak queer lingo to th handy-man. N didn’ sell the cheers they sat on. The four younger children also didn’t like Er Ladyship. Never called em pretty dears, she didn’t, nor give em sweeties nor rag — dolls nor apples. Smacked em if she found em in the orchard. Never so much s give em red flannel capes in the winter.
But Bill, the eldest, liked Er Ladyship. Called er a proper right un. Never stopped tarkin of er. N:be ad statues in er bedroom, n fine gilt cheers, n clocks, n flowerin plants. Bill e’d made fer Er Ladyship what she called 11 eightyjare. In three stories, to stand in a corner n hold knick — nacks out of fretwork to a pettern she’d give im. Varnished proper, too. A good piece of work if he shouldn’t say so. . . . But Miss’s Cramp she’d never been allowed in er Ladyship’s bedroom. A proper place it was. Fit fer a Countess! If Miss’s Cramp could be allowed to see it she’d maybe change her opinions. . . . But Miss’s Cramp she said: Never you trust a fair woman, bein dark.
The matter of the cider, however, did give him to think. Proper cider it was, when they was given a bottle or two. But it wasn’t Sussex cider. A little like Devonshire cider, more like Hereford-shire. But not the same as any. More head it had n was sweeter, n browner. N not to be drunk s freely! Fair scoured you it did if you drunk s much s a quart!
‘The little settlement was advancing furtively to the hedge. Cramp put his bald poll out of his work — shed and then crept out. Mrs. Cramp, an untidy, dark, very thin woman emerged over her door-sill, wiping her hands on her apron. The four Cramp children at different stages of growth crept out of the empty pig-pound. — Cramp was not going to buy his winter pigs till next fortnightly fair at Little Kingsworth. — The Elliott Children, with the milk-can, came at a snail’s pace down the green path from the farm; Mrs. Elliott, an enormous woman with untidy hair, peered over her own hedge, which formed a little enclosure on the Common; Young Hogben, the farmer’s son, a man of forty, very thick-set, appeared on the path in the beech — wood, ostensibly driving a great black sow. Even Gunning left his brushing and lumbered to the edge of the stable. From there he could still see Mark in his bed, but also, looking down-wards between the apple-trunks he could see Marie Léonie bottle the cider, large, florid and intent, in the open dairying-shed where water ran in a V-shaped wooden trough.
“Runnin t’ cider out of cask with a chube!” Mrs. Cramp screamed up the hill to Mrs. Elliott. “Ooever eered!” Mrs. Elliott rumbled huskily back at Mrs. Cramp. All these figures closed in furtively; the children peering through tiny interstices in the hedge and muttering one to the other: “Ooever eered. . . . Foreign ways, I call it. . . . A glass chube. . . . Ooever eered.” Even Cramp, though, wiping his bald head with his carpenter’s apron, he admonished Mrs. Cramp to remember that he had a good job — even Cramp descended from the path to the hedge — side and stood so close — peering over — that the thorns pricked his perspiring chest through his thin shirt. They said to the baker who wearily followed his weary horse up the steep path, coming from the deep woods below: It had ought to be stopped. The police had ought to know. Bottling cider by means of a glass tube. And standing the cider in running water. Where was the excise? Rotting honest folks guts! Poisoning them. No doubt the governor could tell them a tale if he could speak or move. The police had ought to know. . . . Showing off, with cider in running water — to cool it when first bottled! Ooever eered! just because they ad a Ladyship to their tail. N more money than better folks. Not so much money either. Reckon they’d come to smash n be sold up like Igginson at Fittleworth. Set isself up fer Quality, e did too! . . . N not so much of a Ladyship, neither. Not so much more of a Ladyship as us if the truth was known. Not an Earl or a Lord, only a baronite — ess at that, supposin we all ad our rights. . . . The police had ought to be brought into this affair!
A number of members of the Quality, on shining horses, their leathers creaking beautifully, rode at a walk up the path. They were the real Quality. A fine old gentleman, thin as a lath, clean face, hooky nose, white moustache, lovely cane, lovely leggings. On Is Lordship’s favourite hack. A bay mare. A fine lady, slim as a boy, riding astride as they do today though they did not use to. But times change. On the Countess’s own chestnut with white forehead. A bad-tempered horse. She must ride well that lady. Another lady, grey haired, but slim too, riding side-saddle in a funny sort of get-up. Long skirt with panniers and three-cornered hat like the ones you see in pictures of highwaymen in the new pub in Queen’s Norton. Sort of old-fashioned, she looked. But no doubt it was the newest pattern. Things is so mixed up nowadays. Is Lordship’s friends could afford to do as they pleased. A boy, eighteen maybe. Shiny leggings too: all their clothes is shiny. Rides well, too, the boy. Look how his legs nip into Orlando — the chief whip’s horse. Out for an airing. Is Lordship’s groom of the stud only too glad if the horses can get exercise in hay-cutting time. The real Quality.
They reined in their horses and sat staring, a little further up the road, down into the orchard. They had ought to be told what was going on down there. Puts white powder into the cider along o the sugar. The Quality ought to be told. . . . But you do not speak to the Quality. Better if they do not notice you. You never know. They sticks together. Might be friends of Tietjenses for all you know. You don’t know Tietjenses ain’t Quality. Better git a move on or something might appen to you. You hear?
The boy in the shiny leggings and clothes — bare-headed he was, with shiny fair hair and shiny cheeks — exclaimed in a high voice:
“I say, mother, I don’t like this spying!” And the horses started and jostled.
You see. They don’t like this spying. Get a move on. And all that peasantry got a move on whilst the horses went slowly up hill. Queer things the Gentry can do to you still if they notice you. It is all very well to say this is a land fit for whatever the word is that stands for simple folk. They have the police and the keepers in their hands and your cottages and livings.
Gunning went out at the garden gate beside the stable and shouted objurgations at Young Hogben.
“Hey, don’t you drive that sow. She’s as much right on Common as you.”
The great sow was obstinately preceding the squat figure of Young Hogben, who hissed and squeaked behind her. She flapped her great ears and sniffed from side to side, a monument of black . imperturbability.
“You keep your ogs out of our swedes” Young Hogben shouted amidst objurgations. “In our forty-acre she is all day n all night too!”
“You keep your swedes outen our ogs,” Gunning shouted back, swinging his gorilla arms like a semaphore. He advanced on to the Common. Young Hogben descended the slope.
“You fence your ogs in same’s other folks as‘ to do,” Young Hogben menaced.
“Folks as abuts on Commons as to fence out, not fence in,” Gunning menaced. They stood foot to foot on the soft sward menacing each other with their chins.
“Is Lordship sold Tietjens’s to the Cahptn. without Common rights,” the farmer said. “Ask Mr. Fuller.”
“Is Lordship could no more sell Tietjens’s ’thout Common rights n you coulds milk without drinking rights. Ast Lawyer Sturgis!” Gunning maintained. Put arsenic in among is roots, Young Hogben maintained that he would. Spend seven years up to Lewes jail if e did, Gunning maintained. They continued for long the endless, quarrel that obtains between tenant-farmer who is not Quality but used to brutalizing his hinds and gentlemen’s henchman who is used to popularity amongst his class and the peasantry. The only thing upon which they agreed was that you wouldn’t think there adn’t been no war. The war ought to have given tenant-farmers the complete powers of local tyrants; it should have done the same for gentlemen’s bailiffs. The sow grunted round Gunning’s boots, looking up for grains of maize that Gunning usually dropped. In that way sows come to heel when you call them however far away they may be on the Common.
From the hard road up the hill — Tietjens’s went up the slope to the hedge there — descended the elderly lady who was singularly attired in the eyes of the country people. She considered that she was descended, not by blood, but by moral affinity from Madame de Maintenon, therefore she wore a long grey riding skirt with panniers, and a three-cornered, grey felt hat, and carried a riding switch of green shagreen. Her thin grey face was tired but authoritative, her hair which she wore in a knot beneath her hat was luminously grey, her pince-nez rimless.
Owing to the steepness of the bank on which the garden rose, the path of sea-pebbles zigzagged across most of its width, orange-coloured because it had been lately sanded. She went furtively between quince-trunks, much like the hedge-sparrow, flitting a stretch and then stopping for the boy with the shining leggings stolidly to overtake her. She said that it was dreadful to think that the sins of one’s youth could so find one out. It ought to make her young companion think. To come at the end of one’s life to inhabiting so remote a spot. You could not get there with automobiles. Her own Delarue–Schneider had broken down on the hill-road in the attempt to get there yesterday.
The boy, slim in the body, but heavy in the bright red cheeks, with brown hair, truly shiny leggings and a tie of green, scarlet and white stripes, had a temporarily glum expression. He said, nevertheless, with grumbling determination, that he did not think this was playing the game. Moreover hundreds of motors got up that hill; how else would people come to buy the old furniture? He had already told Mrs. de Bray Pape that the carburetters of Delarue–Schneiders were a wash-out.
It was just that, Mrs. Pape maintained, that was so dreadful a thought. She went swiftly down another zigzag of the path and then faltered.
It was that that was dreadful in these old countries, she said. Why could they never learn? Take example? Here were the descendants of a great family, the Tietjens of Groby, a haunt of ancient peace, the one reduced to a no doubt dreadful state by the sins of his youth, the other to making a living by selling old furniture.
The youth said she was mistaken. She must not believe all that his mother hinted to her. His mother was all right, but her hints went further than facts warranted. If he wanted to let Groby to Mrs. de Bray Pape it was because he hated swank. His uncle also hated swank. . . . He mumbled a little and added: “And . . . my father!” Moreover it was not playing the game. He had soft brown eyes that were now clouded and he was blushing.
He mumbled that mother was splendid, but he did not think she ought to have sent him there. Naturally she had her wrongs. For himself he was a Marxist–Communist. All Cambridge was. He therefore of course approved of his father’s living with whom he wished. But there were ways of doing things. Because you were advanced you did not have to treat women with discourtesy. The reverse, rather. He was painfully agitated by the time he overtook the tired lady at the corner of the next zigzag.
She wanted him not to misunderstand her. No discredit attached in her eyes to the pursuit of selling old furniture. Far from it. Mr. Lemuel of Madison Avenue might be called a dealer in old furniture. It was, of course, Oriental, which made a difference. But Mr. Lemuel was a most cultivated man. His country house at Croogers in the State of New York was kept up in a style that would have done credit to the grands seigneurs of pre-Revolutionary France. But from that to this . . . what a downfall!
The house — the cottage — was by now nearly below her feet, the roof extremely high the windows sunk very deep in grey stone and very small. There was a paved semi-circular court before the door, the space having been cut out of the orchard bank and walled with stones. It was extravagantly green, sunk in greenery, and the grass that came nearly to Mrs. Pape’s middle was filled with hiding profusions of flowers turning to seed. The four counties swept away from under her, hedges like string going away, enclosing fields, to the hills on the very distant horizon. The country near at hand Wooded. The boy beside her took a deep breath as he always did when he saw a great view. On the moors above Groby, for instance. Purple they were.
“It isn’t fit for human habitation!” the lady exclaimed with the triumphant intonation of one who sees a great truth confirmed. “The homes of the poor in these old countries beggar even pity. Do you suppose they so much as have a bath ?”
“I should think my father and uncle were personally clean!” the boy said. He mumbled that this was supposed to be rather a show place. He could trust his father indeed to find rather a show place to live in. Look at the rock plants in the sunk garden! He exclaimed: “Look here I Let’s go back!”
Mrs. Pape’s perturbation gave way to obstinacy. She exclaimed:
“Never!” She had a mission from the poor boy’s injured mother. She would never look Sylvia Tietjens in the face if she flinched. Sanitation went before anything. She hoped to leave the world a better place before she passed over. She had Authority conferred on her. Metem-psychosistically. She believed that the soul of Madame de Maintenon, the companion of Lewis the Fourteenth, had passed into her. How many convents had not the Maintenon set up and how rigidly had she not looked after the virtue and the sanitation of the inhabitants? That was what she, Mrs. Millicent de Bray Pape, looked to. She had in the South of” France — the Riviera — a palace, erected by Mr. Behrens, the celebrated architect-after the palace of the Maintenon at Sans Souci. But sanitated! She asked the young man to believe her. The boudoir appeared to be only a panelled boudoir; very large because of the useless vanity of le Raw Solale. Madame de Maintenon would have been content Without such vanity. . . . But only touch a spring in the panels and every sort of bathing arrangement presented itself to you hidden in the wall. Sunken baths; baths above ground; douches with sea — water extra — iodized; lateral douches with and without bath-salts dissolved in the water. That was what she called making the world a little better. Impossible not to be healthy with all that . . .
The boy mumbled that he was not in principle against the old tree’s coming down. He was, indeed, in principle against his uncle’s and his father’s adoption of the peasant life. This was an industrial age. The peasant had always spoilt every advance in the ideas of the world. All the men at Cambridge were agreed as to that. He exclaimed:
“Hi! You can’t do that. . . . Not go through standing hay!”
Every fibre of his country boy landowner’s soul if was outraged as he saw the long trail of satiny grey that followed Mrs. de Bray Pape’s long skirts.
How were his father’s men to cut hay that had been trampled like that? But, unable to bear any longer the suspense of the spectacular advance towards Mark Tietjens along those orange zigzags, Mrs. de Bray Pape was running straight down the bank towards the unwalled, thatched hut. She could see it through the tops of the apple-tree.
The boy, desperately nervous, continued to descend the zigzag paths that would take him into the very purlieus of his father’s house — onto the paved court where there were rock plants between the interstices. His mother ought not to have forced him to accompany Mrs. de Bray Pape. His mother was splendid. Divinely beautiful: athletic as Atalanta or Betty Nuthall, in spite of her sufferings. But she ought not to have sent Mrs. de Bray Pape. It was meant as a sort of revenge. General Campion had not approved. He could see that, though he had said: “My boy, you ought always to obey your dear mother! She has suffered so much. It is your duty to make it up to her by fulfilling her slightest whim. An Englishman always does his duty to his mother!”
Of course it was the presence of Mrs. de Bray Pape that forced the General to say that. Patriotism. General Campion was deadly afraid of mother. Who wasn’t? But he would hardly have enjoined upon a son to go and spy upon his father and his father’s . . . companion if he had not wanted to show Mrs. de Bray Pape how superior English family ties were to those of her country. They ragged each other about that all day long.
And yet he did not know. The dominion of women over those of the opposite sex was a terrible thing. He had seen the old General whimper like a whipped dog and mumble in his poor white moustache. . . . Mother was splendid. But wasn’t sex a terrible thing. . . . His breath came short.
He covered two foot of pebbles with the orange sand rolled into them. A tidy job it must be rolling on that slope! Still, the actual gradient was not so steep on the zigzags. One in sixteen perhaps. He covered another two foot of pebbles with orange sand rolled in. How could he? How could he cover another two? His heels were trembling!
Four counties ran out below his feet. To the horizon! He showed him the kingdoms of the earth. As great a view as above Groby, but not purple and with no sea. Trust father to settle where you could see a great view by going up hill. Vox adhaesit. . . . “His feet were rooted to the earth.” . . . No, vox adhaesit faucibus meant that his voice stuck to his jaws. Palate rather. His palate was as dry as sawdust! How could he do it! . . . A terrible thing! They called it Sex! . . . His mother had coerced him into this dry palate and trembling heels by the force of her sex fever. Dreadful good-nights they had had in her boudoir, she forcing and forcing and forcing him with arguments to go. To come here. Beautiful mother! . . . Cruel! Cruel!
The boudoir all lit up. Warm! Scented! Mother’s shoulders! A portrait of Nell Gwynn by Sir Peter Lely. Mrs. de Bray Pape wanted to buy it. Thought she could buy the earth, but Lord Fittleworth only laughed. . . . How had they all got forced down there? By mother. . . . To spy on father. Mother had never set any store by Fittleworth — good fellow Fittleworth, good landlord! — till last winter when she had got to know that father had bought this place. Then it was Fittleworth, Fittleworth, Fittleworth! Lunches, dinner, dances at the Ambassadors. Fittleworth wasn’t saying no. Who could say no to mother with her figure in the saddle and her hair?
If he had known when they came down to Fittleworth’s last winter what he knew now! He knew now that his mother, come down for the hunting, though she had never taken much stock in hunting . . . Still, she could ride. Jove, she could ride.
He had gone queer all over again and again at first in taking those leaps that she took laughing. Diana, that’s what she was. . . . Well, no, Diana was . . . His mother, come down for the hunting, was there to torment father and his . . . companion. She had told him. Laughing in that way she had. . . . It must be sex cruelty! . . . Laughing like those Leonardi-do-da. . . . Well, Vinci women. A queer laugh, ending with a crooked smile. . . . In correspondence with Father’s servants. . . . Dressing up as a housemaid and looking over the hedge.
How could she do it? How? How could she force him to be here? What would Monty, the Prime Minister’s son, Dobles, Porter — fat ass because his father was too beastly rich — what would his set think at Cambridge? They were all Marxist–Communists to a man. But still . . .
What would Mrs. Lowther think if she really knew? . . . If she could have been in the corridor one night when he came out from his mother’s boudoir! He would have had the courage to ask her then. Her hair was like floss silk, her lips like cut pomegranates. When she laughed she threw up her head. . . . He was now warm all over, his eyes wet and warm.
When he had asked if he ought to — if she wanted him to — do whatever his mother wanted whether or no he approved. . . . If his mother asked him to do what he thought was a mean action. . . .
But that had been on the Peacock Terrace with the famous Fittleworth Seven Sister Roses. . . . How she went against the roses. . . . In a yellow . . . No, moth-coloured . . . Not yellow, not yellow. Green’s forsaken, but yellow’s forsworn. Great pity filled him at the thought that Mrs. Lowther might be forsaken. But she must not be forsworn . . . moth — coloured silk. Shimmering. Against pink roses. Her fine, fine hair, a halo. She had looked up and sideways. She had been going to laugh with her lips like cut pomegranates. . . . She had told him that as a rule it was a good thing to do what one’s mother wanted when she was like Mrs. Christopher Tietjens. Her soft voice. . . . Soft Southern voice. . . . Oh, when she laughed at Mrs. de Bray Pape. . . . How could she be a friend of Mrs. de Bray Pape’s? . . .
If it hadn’t been sunlight. . . . If he had come on Mrs. Lowther as he came out of his mother’s boudoir! He would have had courage. At night. Late. He would have said: “If you are really interested in my fate tell me if I ought to spy upon my father and his . . . companion!” She would not have laughed, late at night. She would have given him her hand. The loveliest hands and the lightest feet. And her eyes would have dimned. . . . Lovely, lovely pansies! Pansies are hearts-ease. . . .
Why did he have these thoughts: these wafts of intolerable . . . oh, desire. He was his mother’s son. . . . His mother was . . . He would kill anyone who said it. . . .
Thank God! Oh, thank God! He was down on the crazy paving level with the house. AND there was another path went up to Uncle Mark’::bed. The Blessed Virgin — who was like Helen Lowther! — had watched over him. He had not to walk under those little deep, small-paned windows.
His father’s . . . companion might have been looking out. He would have fainted. . . .
His father was a good sort of man. But he, too, must be . . . like Mother. If what they said was true. Ruined by dissolute living. But a good, grey man. The sort of man to be tormented by Mother. Great spatulate fingers. But no one had ever tied flies like Father. Some he had tied years ago were the best he, Mark Tietjens junior of Groby, had yet. And Father loved the wine-coloured moor. Haw could he stifle under these boughs! A house overhung by trees is unsanitary. Italians say that. . . .
But what a lovely glimpse under the trees! Sweet-williams along the path. Light filtered by boughs. Shadow. Gleams in the little window-panes. Wall-stones all lichen. That’s England. If he could spend a while here with Father. . . .
Father had been matchless with horses. Women, too. . . . What an inheritance was his, Mark Tietjens, junior’s! If he could spend a while here. . . . But his Father slept with . . . If she came out of the door. . . . She must be beautiful. . . . No they said she was not a patch on mother. He had overheard that at Fittleworth’s. Or Helen Lowther. . . . But his father had had his pick? . . . If he chose then to sleep with . . .
If she came out of the door he would faint. . . . Like the Venus of Botti . . . A crooked smile. . . . No, Helen Lowther would protect. . . . He might “* fall in love with his Father’s . . . What do you know of what will happen to you when you come in contact with the Bad Woman. . . . Of advanced views. . . . They said she was of Advanced Views. And a Latinist. . . . He was a Latinist. Loved it!
Or his father might with Hel . . . Hot jealousy filled him. His father was the sort of man . . . She might . . . Why did over . . . People like mother and father beget children?
He kept his eyes fascinatedly fixed on the stone porch of the cottage whilst he stumbled up the great stone slabs to the path. The path led to Uncle Mark’s wall — less thatched hut. . . . No form filled the porch. What was to become of him? He had great wealth; terrific temptation would be his. His mother was no guide. His father might have been better. . . . Well, there was Marxian–Communism. They all looked to that now, in his set at Cambridge. Monty, the Prime Minister’s son, with black eyes; Dobles, Campion’s nephew, lean as a rat; Porter, with a pig’s snout, but witty as hell. Fat ass.
Last updated Tuesday, August 25, 2015 at 14:08