Thomas Kinkade Bridge of Hope painting

Thomas Kinkade Bridge of Hope paintingThomas Kinkade Blessings of Christmas paintingThomas Kinkade Beyond Summer Gate painting
He wasn't housetrained. Used to servants, he left clothes, crumbs, used tea-bags where they fell. Worse: he _dropped_ them, actually let them fall where they would need picking up; perfectly, richly unconscious of what he was doing, he went on proving to himself that he, the poor boy from the streets, no longer needed to tidy up after himself. It wasn't the only thing about him that drove her crazy. She'd pour glasses of wine; he'd drink his fast and then, when she wasn't looking, grab hers, placating her with an angelic--faced, ultra--rude, without bothering to find out who they were: automatically, the way film stars were in Bombay when, by some chance, there wasn't a flunkey available to protect them from such intrusions. After Alicja had weathered one such volley of obscene abuse, she said (when her daughter finally got on the end of the phone): "Excuse me for mentioning, darling, but your boyfriend is in my opinion a case." innocent "Plenty more, isn't it?" His bad behaviour around the house. He liked to fart. He complained -- actually complained, after she'd literally scooped him out of the snow! -- about the smallness of the accommodations. "Every time I take two steps my face hits a wall." He was rude to telephone callers, _really_