(no subject)
There's a little old lady seated at a booth in the bar, knitting needles furiously clacking away on green wool. The desired end product appears to be numerous pairs of socks.
(The poor woman has no idea that this harmless activity is often regarded with suspicion in these parts.)
She's muttering to herself - or possibly to the socks - as she works. This is quite usual for old ladies, or so she reasons, and should therefore not cause coment.
"I must get to Lettie somehow," she murmurs, scowling; and then, to the socks: "Well, at least you're going to turn out all right, I'm sure."
(The poor woman has no idea that this harmless activity is often regarded with suspicion in these parts.)
She's muttering to herself - or possibly to the socks - as she works. This is quite usual for old ladies, or so she reasons, and should therefore not cause coment.
"I must get to Lettie somehow," she murmurs, scowling; and then, to the socks: "Well, at least you're going to turn out all right, I'm sure."