Explore "Memoirs of a Midget" by Walter de la Mare on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
I trod close in Mrs. Bowater's track as she convoyed me through a sea of greenery breaking here and there to my waist and even above my hat. Summer had been busy in Wanderslore. Honeysuckle and acid-sweet brier were in bloom; sleeping bindweed and pimpernel. The air was liquidly sweet with uncountable odours. And the fading skies dyed bright the frowning front of the house, about which the new-come swifts shrieked in their play over my wilderness. Mr. Anon looked peculiar, standing alone there.
Having bidden him a gracious good evening, Mrs. Bowater after a long, ruminating glance at us, decided that she would "take a stroll through the grounds. " We watched her black figure trail slowly away up the overgrown terraces towards the house. Then he turned. His clear, dwelling eyes, with that darker line encircling the grey-black iris, fixed themselves on me, his mouth tight-shut.