The smallest objects melt together. Layers of letter, letters, more letters, keepsakes, clippings and embroidery;
Interleaved photographs: a house, half-asleep, preserved in aspic, glows through the gelatine print that caught one gated morning. It is furled up: corseted like a suburb, weighted with dark Turkish carpets and ottomans.
Inside, pale-fingered ladies drown in waves of linen and dark carved wood. Nets and books are cased by their beds, ready to be opened when maids come with silver trays to pin veils of hairpieces to their fragile heads.
The back gate opens with an ostrich feather softness, a rustle of red and yellow paper hidden under skirts. Brightness prised from the street, pinned up like a photograph.