Salvador Dali meditative rose

Salvador Dali meditative roseHenri Rousseau The Sleeping GypsyLaurie Maitland Symphony in Red and Khaki I
for me and —' he paused – 'the young lady, of course.'
Mort nodded. 'Your daughter,' he said.
'Mine? Ha,' said Albert. 'You're wrong there. She's his.'
Mort stared down at his fried eggs. They stared back from their lake values, and only his fancy. He doesn't mean anything by it.'
Leaving his breakfast to congeal, Mort hurried up the steps, along the corridor and paused in front of the first door. He raised his hand to knock.
ENTER.
The handle turned of its own accord. The door swung inward.
Death was seated behind a desk, peering intently into a vast leather book didn't hold with them.'Are we talking about the same person?' he said at last. Tall, wears black, he's a bit . . . skinny.'Adopted,' said Albert, kindly. 'It's rather a long story —'A bell jangled by his head.'— which will have to wait. He wants to see you in his study. I should run along if I were you. He doesn't like to be kept waiting. Understandable, really. Up the steps and first on the left. You can't miss it —''It's got skulls and bones around the door?' said Mort, pushing back his chair.They all have, most of them,' sighed Albert. 'It's