Chapter Twenty-Eight
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ScowlsThe enormity of Walter's old home bewitched and beguiled, an endless space of accumulated eccentricities. One moment I passed an oak dressing table laid out with perfumes and powders of undoubted quality, the next, gazed at stuffed monstrosities bygones of some extinct era. Yet, despite the dashes of flamboyance, the bizarre twists of taste, there was an undercurrent of consistency to Merryweather's accumulated paraphernalia: they were inextricably linked he and they, the contents of a disgorged heart. Aurora loved them all.
“What is this?” she'd ask.
“Oh, nothing,” her father would say with a dismissive wave.
His nonchalance might've tricked others but not me, I'd mastered it so long ago. Walter could no more talk about those individual snippets of self
