A Breath of French Air [antikvár]

Little Oscar, Ma Larkin's seventh, to whom she hoped in due course to give a real proper ribbon of names, probably calling him after some famous explorer, admiral, or Roman Emperor, or even the whole lot, lay in his lavish silvery pram in the kitchen, looking remarkably like a very soft, very large apple dumpling that has been slightly over-boiled. Continual small bubbles of spittle oozed softly like pink juice from his lips and Pop, coming in to breakfast after giving morning swill to the pigs, paused affectionately to wipe them off with a feeder worked all over in royd blue daisies and a bright scarlet picture of Miss Muffet, the big spider, and the curds-and-whey. Ma, who looked if anything six inches wider since having the baby than she had done even while carrying it, had worked the feeder herself. She hadn't all that much time to spare with seven on her hands but she was surprisingly clever with her plump olive fingers that were almost hidden in pearl and turquoise rings. ' Soon be as fat as a Christmas gander,' Pop said, at the same time pausing to give his son-in-law, Mr Charlton, his customary open-handed clout of greeting in the middle of the back. Mr Charlton, who sat patiendy lookiog through his spectacles at The Times whUe waiting for his breakfast, took the salutation without flinching. Nearly a year in the Larkin household had hardened him a lot. Ma, in bright purple blouse and pink apron and with her dark rich hair still in curling pins, had three pounds of sausages in one frying-pan, several rounds of fried bread