She laughed out loud. ‘Don’t be silly Arthur dearest. How could that great thing go into my tiny quimmie? Why, you can scarcely get your finger i... there.’ At that moment I saw with clarity the gulf set between the knowledge of the poor working girls I had consorted with at home, and a young woman of the middle class reared in a household of women. The village girls, brought up in a couple or rooms, sharing beds with sisters and brothers, and often sleeping in the same room as their parents,. He made me laugh, and he made me cry. The stranger never stopped talking, but Dad didn’t seem to mind. Sometimes, Mom would get up quietly while the rest of us were shushing each other to listen to what he had to say, and she would go to the kitchen for peace and quiet. (I wonder now if she ever prayed for the stranger to leave.)Dad ruled our household with certain moral convictions, the stranger never felt obligated to honor them.Profanity, for example, was not allowed in our home - not from. More

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