Perhaps I ought to have counted Miss Blossom as a piece of furniture. She is a dressmaker’s dummy of most opulent figure with a wire skirt round her one leg. We are a bit silly about Miss Blossom — we pretend she is real. We imagine her to be a woman of the world, perhaps a barmaid in her youth. She says things like “Well, dearie, that’s what men are like,” and “You hold out for your marriage lines.”
