‘Miriam Hazlett? Oh yes, dear, the town’s biggest snob with nothing to be snobbish about. What a stuck up cow,’ answered gossip columnist Emily Dickinson in response to Yarrow’s question.
Emily Dickinson was a large, cheerful, woman in her sixties. She had short, blondish, curly hair dyed a lurid pink, wore a pale cornflower blue dress with a forget-me-not pattern that was more akin to a bell tent than a dress. She wore a pair of pink cats-eye framed spectacles attached to a gold chain about her ponderous neck, which was lost amongst the fleshy jowls.
‘I see, Mrs Dickinson, so what can you tell me about her?’ and as he leaned closer, Yarrow could smell the rosewater Emily Dickinson had sprayed upon herself in industrial quantities.
‘Emily, dear, Emily, I never was a Mrs, thank goodness.
