Sometimes a word or two in Pillcrest’s poems jingled. More occasionally a couple of words made sense. They flowed from her lips in a sing-song gurgle, spinning like pennies, and slapping down dead. Mrs. Pillcrest was a small, spare woman with opaque blue eyes. While the poems were tinkling out of one corner of her mouth a cigarette was burning in the other. The poems were about the stars, maternity, love, living, and the…
As the world war progressed rentals went down till it became impossible to meet living expenses without throwing in my every resource. I had no time to paint so had to rent the studio flat and make do myself with a basement room and a tent in my back garden. Everything together only brought in what a flat and a half had before the war. A woman came to look at the Studio flat…
Coming up Simcoe Street I stopped short and nearly strangled! There, stretched right across the front windows of the Doll’s Flat, the street side of my respectable apartment house, dangled from the very rods where my fresh curtains had been when I went out–one huge suit of men’s natural wool underwear, one pair of men’s socks, one pair of women’s emaciated silk stockings, a vest, and two pairs of peach scanties. Who, I wondered, had…