My home is a garden home. Plants stand on every important furnishing. Fresh cut flowers from the Happy Valley center every eating table, every coffee table, every room of my home. Potted ficus trees line the long, tall, and narrow entry to the house before it reaches the cavernous hall of portraits. Walking up the wide staircase, fresh-cut greens twine themselves around the banisters like a cobra around its prey. Standing atop the precipice, your mind on the hard marble floors below, the idea of its twenty-foot distance both dizzying and fascinating, you fear your subconscious mind will tell you jump, jump, you can do it. My flowers, plants, trees all make it easier for you to lose your fear.
My husband's long gone, lost in the sea down the hill from my Cornwall mansion. I make my garden home available to all the weak men from London, Manchester, Birmingham -- those who've succumbed to drinking, drugs, gambling, adultery. The vices of the weak, those weak souls unable to resist the charms of a 36-year old widow of milky skin, sardonic grins, curved breasts and hips, and silky black negligees. It's never a challenge to entice men to my lair by the sea.
I bring them to the lonely, antiquated brittleness of my dead husband's 800-year old mansion, the roar of the ocean on the southwest side of the estate. LIke my husband, these men make their final farewell, one way or the other, whether by the dizzying sway above the hall of portraits, the jagged edges of the craggy cliffs, or leaky boats we launch late at night into the black sea. I laugh at them, every man the same, all weak within my grip. Then I head back up to the mansion and lay myself in my bed. The ocean's roar puts me to sleep and I conjure my next acquisition.
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