The night shirt that she sometimes wore shaped her chest as in Greecian times, puffed out below, and then cinched inward at her wauit in a kind of elegant flump.
She could not help but tease to him that she looked as graceful as a black flan – or perhaps a wrinkly-lined fig fruit- knowing that the images thereby imprinted upon his mind were like playful record scratches.”
Candid Corvid Productions 