

Equally, there’s something about solo trees with no leaves in summer that cries out for portraiture.
Tom’s a-cold,– O, do de, do de, do de. Bless thee from whirlwinds, star-blasting, and taking! Do poor Tom some charity, whom the foul fiend vexes: there could I have him now,–and there,–and there again, and there.
A window looking out on a little courtyard. The smears on the stuff in the window looked like hands rising up to me. The mirror in the bottom image didn’t seem to be able to reflect me, and was angled in such a way as to create a little bit of a trompe l’oeil effect with the glass bowl in the reflection different from the stone bowl in the foreground.