One weekend morning’s worth of doing my laundry at home has revealed to me an uncanny proliferation of old ladies’ clothes in my closet, one of which is this delicate lace shrug from a UK clothing brand I bought from an outlet store last month.
Hanging by its lonesome in that place of previously unwanted clothes, it called to me in a whispery, lacy little voice.
If I didn’t live in this flat, I would think that somebody’s grandmother had just done her washing.
Either that, or Dickens’ Ms. Havisham just came to town.
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