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Updated: June 9, 2025
"It used to strike me sometimes that old Lenman was just like one of his own melons the pale-fleshed English kind. His life, apathetic and motionless, hung in a net of gold, in an equable warm ventilated atmosphere, high above sordid earthly worries.
Shaped a little like a log, he was back of his head and back of his neck all of a width. Little lively green eyes and bristling red mustaches. A complexion a society bud might have envied. Why was it a butcher got so pink and white and sleek? Pork, that's what Uncle Clem resembled, Luke thought a nice, smooth, pale-fleshed pig, ready to be skinned. His turn next!
"It used to strike me sometimes that old Lenman was just like one of his own melons the pale-fleshed English kind. His life, apathetic and motionless, hung in a net of gold, in an equable warm ventilated atmosphere, high above sordid earthly worries.
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