Francois Boucher Are They Thinking About the Grap

it that it broke.
‘I tell you before,’ he told the recumbent figure, ‘it trolls like you getting us a bad name. How can we take rightful place in brotherhood of sapient species with defective trolls like you letting side down alter time?’
He reached through the hole and pulled Victor out bodily.
‘Thanks, Rocksignals with his hands and eyebrows. ‘It’s absolutely true! You’re absolutely right, Rock!’
‘Yeah,’ said one of the trolls behind Rock. ‘I seen them on the clicks. He kissing her and carrying her off the whole time.’
‘Now listen,’ Ginger began.
‘And now we get out of here fast,’ said Rock. ‘This whole ceiling looking very defective to me. Could go at any time.’. Er. There’s Ginger in there, too.’Rock gave him a crafty nudge that bruised a couple of ribs.‘So I see,’ he said. ‘And she wearing very pretty silk neggleliggle. You find nice place to indulge in bit of "What is the health of your parent?" and the Disc move for you, yeah?’ The other trolls grinned.‘Uh, yes, I suppose–‘ Victor began.‘That’s not true at all!’ snapped Ginger, as she was helped through the hole. ‘We weren’t‑‘‘Yes, it is!’ said Victor, making furious

Jean Beraud A Game of Billiards

solemnly promise not to do any more meddling in the click,’ said Dibbler gravely. ‘I’m your uncle. I’m family. Is that good enough for you?’
‘Well. All ‘Well, that’s a relief,’ said the troll. He patted them on the heads, forcing their feet a little way into the sand. ‘Thanks very much. Much obliged. Have a nice night,’ he added mournfully.
He watched them walk off hand in hand, and then burst into tears.
In the handlemen’s shed, C.M.O.T. Dibbler stood watching thoughtfully as Gaffer right.’When the fire had died down they raked some of the ashes together for a barbecue at the end‑of‑shooting party, under the stars. The velvet sheet of the night drapes itself over the parrot cage that is Holy Wood, and on warm nights like this there are many people with private business to pursue.A young couple, strolling hand in hand across the dunes, were frightened to near insensibility when an enormous troll jumped out at them from behind a rock waving its arms and shouting ‘Aaaargh!’‘Scared you, did I?’ said Detritus, hopefully.They nodded, white‑faced.

Henri Matisse Still Life with Oranges

even people like Cohen the Barbarian get up in the morning thinking, "Oh, no, not another day of crushing the jewelled thrones of the world beneath my sandalled feet."‘
‘Is that what he does?’ said Ginger, interested despite herself.
‘According to the stories, yes.’
‘Why?’ of this. ‘You decided you wanted to be someone?’
‘Don’t be silly. That’s when I decided I was going to be a lot more than just someone.’
She threw the shells towards the sunset and laughed. ‘I’m going to be the most famous person in the world, everyone will fall in love with me, and I shall live forever.’ ‘Search me. It’s just a job, I guess.’ Ginger picked up a handful of sand. There were tiny white shells in it, which stayed behind as it trickled away between her fingers. ‘I remember when the circus came to our village,’ she said. ‘I was ten. There was this girl with spangled tights. She walked a tightrope. She could even do somersaults on it. Everybody cheered and clapped. They wouldn’t let me climb a tree, but they cheered her. That’s when I decided.’ ‘Ah,’ said Victor, trying to keep up with the psychology

Tamara de Lempicka Printemps

‘I think I know what people want,’ he said, ‘and they don’t want to read lots of small writing. They want spectacles!’
‘Because of the small writing?’ said Victor, sarcastically. ‘They want dancing girls! They want thrills! They want elephants! They want people falling off roofs! They want dreams! The world is full of little people with big dreams!you to believe you can make better moving pictures?’ said Silverfish. ‘Anyone can sell sausages! Isn’t that so, Victor?’
‘Well . . . ‘ said Victor, reluctantly. No-one except Dibbler could possibly sell Dibbler’s sausages.
‘There you are, then,’ said Silverfish.
‘The thing is’, said Victor, ‘that Mr Dibbler can even sell sausages to people that have bought ’ ‘What, you mean like dwarfs and gnomes and so on?’ said Victor. ‘No!’ ‘Tell me, Mr Dibbler,’ said Silverfish, ‘what exactly is your profession?’ ‘I sell merchandise,’ said Dibbler. ‘Mostly sausages,’ Victor volunteered. ‘And merchandise,’ said Dibbler, sharply. ‘I only sells sausages when the merchandising trade is a bit slow.’ ‘And the sale of sausages leads

Tom Thomson Woodland Waterfall

slander on skilled crude but builders throughout the ages; if the sea had simply been left to pile the wood up it might have done a better job.
And, inside, an, into the diamond-bright morning. He was interested to see that he was still wearing a ghostly image of his ceremonial robe - stained and frayed, but still recognizable as having originally been a dark red plush with gold frogging - even though he was dead. Either your clothes died when you did, he thought, or maybe you just mentally dressed yourself from force of habit.
Habit also led him to the pile of driftwood beside the hut. When. he tried to gather a few sticks, though, his hands passed through them.
He swore. old man had just died. ‘Oh,’ he said. He opened his eyes and looked around the interior of the hut. He hadn’t seen it very clearly for the past ten years. Then he swung, if not his legs, then at least the memory of his legs off the pallet of sea-heather and stood up. Then he went outside

Francois Boucher Venus Consoling Love

the tiny shape halfway up the wall of the pyramid, saw it falter.
The rest of broke around him, and he was half-pushed, half-pulled up the sloping wall. Voices like the creak of sarcophagi filled his ears, moaning encouragement.
'Well done, boy,' groaned a crumbling mummy, hauling him bodily on to its shoulder. 'You remind me of me when I was alive. To you, son.'
'Got him,' said the corpse above, lifting Teppic easily the ancestors saw it, too, and as one corpse they knew what to do. Dios could wait. This was family. Teppic heard the snap of the handle under his foot, slid a little, and hung by one hand. He'd got another knife in above him but . . . no, no good. He hadn't got the reach. For practical purposes his arms felt like short lengths of wet rope. Now, if he spreadeagled himself as he slid, he might be able to slow enough . He looked down and saw the climbers coming towards him, in a tide that was tumbling upwards. The ancestors rose up the face of the pyramid silently, like creepers, each new row settling into position on the shoulders of the generation beneath, while the younger ones climbed on over them. Bony hands grabbed Teppic as the wave of edificeers

Titian Sacred and Profane Love

few things that so shake belief as seeing, clearly and precisely, the object of that belief. Seeing, contrary to popular wisdom, isn't believing. It's where belief stops, because it isn't needed any more.
'Oh, Sod,' moaned Gern.
Dil struck him across the arm.
'Stop that,' he said. 'And come with me.'
'Oh, master, whatever shall we do?'
Dil looked around at the sleeping city. He hadn't the faintest idea.
'We'll go 'There,' he said. 'See, Gern, the sun is coming up!'
They stood and watched it.
Then Gern whimpered, very quietly.
Rising up the sky, very slowly, was a great flaming ball. And it was being pushed by a dung beetle bigger than worlds.to the palace,' he said firmly. 'It's probably a trick of the, of the, of the dark. Anyway, the sun will be up presently.' He strode off, wishing he could change places with Gern and show just a hint of gibbering terror. The apprentice followed him at a sort of galloping creep. 'I can see shadows against the stars, master! Can you see them, master? Around the edge of the world, master!' 'Just mists, boy,' said Dil, resolutely keeping his eyes fixed in front of him and maintaining a dignified posture as appropriate to the Keeper of the Left Hand Door of the Matron Lodge and holder of several medals for needlework.

Wassily Kandinsky Composition VIII

clouds passing across it. It was dawning on him that this came under the heading of initiation into ancient craft secrets.
'You mean even the painters change the-' he began.
Dil frowned at him.
'We don't talk about it,' he said.
Gern . What a kingdom. He looked down and saw the soul of the late cat, which was washing itself. When he was alive he'd hated the things, but just now it seemed positively companionable. He patted it gingerly on its flat head. It purred for a moment, and then attempted to strip the flesh from his hand. It was on a definite hiding to nothing there.
He was aware with growing horror that the trio was now discussing a pyramid. His pyramid. It was going to be the biggest one ever. It was going to go on a highly fertile piece of sloping ground on a prime site in the tried to force his features into an expression of worthy seriousness. 'Oh,' he said. 'Yes. I see, master.' The sculptor clapped him on the back. 'You're a bright lad, Gern,' he said. 'You catch on. After all, it's bad enough being ugly when you're alive. Think how terrible it would be to be ugly in the netherworld.' King Teppicymon XXVII shook his head. We all have to look alike when we're alive, he thought, and now they make sure we're identical when we're dead

Jack Vettriano The Tourist Trap

oze between Ankh, the city with the better address, and Morpork on the opposite bank. Morpork was not a good address. Morpork was twinned with a tar pit. There was not a lot that plains like a toad on a firebrick. And even now, around midnight, the heat was stifling, wrapping the streets like scorched velvet, searing the air and squeezing all the breath out of it.
High in the north face of the Assassins' Guildhouse there was a click as a window was pushed open.
Teppic, who had with considerable reluctance divested himself of some of the heavier of his weapons, took a deep draught of the hot, dead air.
This was it.
This was the night.could be done to make Morpork a worse place. A direct hit by a meteorite, for example, would count as gentrification. Most of the river bed was a honeycomb crust of cracked mud. Currently the sun appeared to be a big copper gong nailed to the sky. The heat that had dried up the river fried the city by day and baked it by night, curling ancient timbers, turning the traditional slurry of the streets into a drifting, choking ochre dust. It wasn't Ankh-Morpork's proper weather. It was by inclination a city of mists and drips, of slithers and chills. It sat panting on the crisping

Vincent van Gogh Red vineyards

'These walnuts are damn tough,' said Nanny, spitting one out into her hand. 'I'm going to have to take my shoe off to this one.'
Granny subsided into unaccustomed, troubled silence, and tried to listen to the prologue. The theatre worried her. It had aHwel peered around a pillar and signalled to Wimsloe and Brattsley, who hobbled out into the glare of the torches.
OLD MAN (an Elder): 'What hath befell the land?'
OLD WOMAN (a Crone): ' 'Tis a terror—'
The dwarf watched them for a few seconds from the wings, his lips moving magic of its own, one that didn't belong to her, one that wasn't in her control. It changed the world, and said things were otherwise than they were. And it was worse than that. It was magic that didn't belong to magical people. It was commanded by ordinary people, who didn't know the rules. They altered the world because it sounded better.The duke and duchess were sitting on their thrones right in front of the stage. As Granny glared at them the duke half turned, and she saw his smile.I want the world the way it is, she thought. I want the past the way it was. The past used to be a lot better than it is now.And the band struck up.

Edward Hopper Les Pont Royal

the giant growled, and turned around, an arm like a couple of broom handles strung together with elastic and covered with red fur unfolded itself in a complicated motion and smacked him across the jaw so hard that he rose several inches in the air and landed on a table.
By the ?' said Tomjon, grinning.
'It's going to be bloody murder in a minute, my lad!'
Tomjon nodded, and crawled back out into the fray. Hwel heard him thump on the bar counter with something and call for silence.
Hwel put his arms over his head in panic.time that the table had slid into another table and overturned a couple of benches there was enough impetus to start the night's overdue brawl, especially since the big man had a few friends with him. Since no-one felt like attacking the ape, who had dreamily pulled a bottle from the shelf and smashed the bottom off on the counter, they hit whoever happened to be nearest, on general principles. This is absolutely correct etiquette for a tavern brawl.Hwel walked under a table and dragged Tomjon, who was watching all this with interest, after him.'So this is roistering. I always wondered.''I think perhaps it would be a good idea to leave,' said the dwarf firmly. 'Before there's, you know, any trouble.'There was a thump as someone landed on the table above them, and a tinkle of broken glass.'Is it real roistering, do you suppose, or merely rollicking

Pablo Picasso Ambroise Vollard

king tried to hunker down, and found he was sinking slightly into the floor. He pulled himself together and drifted upwards. Once a man allowed himself to go native in the ethereal world there would be no hope for him, he felt.
cerebration. He'd never had a Plan before, or at least one that went much further than 'Let's find something and kill it'. And here, sitting in front of him washing itself, was the key.Only close relatives and the psychically inclined, Death had said. There weren't many of either in the castle. The duke qualified under the first heading, but his relentless self-interest made him about as psychically useful as a carrot. As for the rest, only the cook and the Fool seemed to qualify, but the cook spent a lot of his time weeping in the pantry because he wasn't being allowed to roast anything more bloody than a parsnip and the Fool was already such a bundle of nerves that Verence had given up his attempts to get through.A witch, now. If a witch wasn't psychically inclined, then he, King Verence, was a puff of wind. He had to get a witch into the castle. And then . . .He'd got a plan. In fact, it was more than that; it was a Plan. He spent months over it. He hadn't got anything else to do, except think. Death had been right about that. All that ghosts had were thoughts, and although thoughts in general had always been alien to the king the absence of any body to distract him with its assorted humours had actually given him the chance to savour the joys of

Vincent van Gogh Wheat Field with Rising Sun

,' said Magrat, wearily. 'I still don't think you quite understand.'
'Well, I'm going to get to the bottom of it,' snapped Granny. She got back on to the stage and pulled aside the sacking curtains.
'You!' she shouted. 'You're dead!'
The , for ordering coal. Coal ordered by this voice would become diamonds.
It apparently belonged to a large fat man who had been badly savaged by a moustache. Pink veins made a map of quite a large city on his cheeks; his nose could have hidden successfully in a bowl of strawberries. He wore a luckless former corpse, who was eating a ham sandwich to calm his nerves, fell backwards off his stool.Granny kicked a bush. Her boot went right through it.'See?' she said to the world in general in a strangely satisfied voice. 'Nothing's real! It's all just paint, and sticks and paper at the back.''May I assist you, good ladies?'It was a rich and wonderful voice, with every diphthong gliding beautifully into place. It was a golden brown voice. If the Creator of the multiverse had a voice, it was a voice such as this. If it had a drawback, it was that it wasn't a voice you could use, for example

Vincent van Gogh Seascape at Saintes-Maries

Mort read the names. The first seemed to refer to a nobleman in the Agatean Empire regions. The second was a collection of pictograms that he recognised as originating in Turnwise Klatch.
'Over to you,' Albert sneered. The sooner you get started, the sooner you'll be finished. I'll bring Binky round to the front door.'
'Do my of the thunderclap.
She recognised the walk. He was stalking.
'Mort?' she whispered.
YES?
'Something's happening to you.'
I KNOW, said Mort. 'But I think I can control it.' eyes look all right to you?' said Mort, anxiously.'Nothing wrong with them that I can see,' said Albert. 'Bit red round the edges, bit bluer than usual, nothing special.'Mort followed him back past the long shelves of glass, looking thoughtful. Ysabell watched him take the sword from the rack by the door and test its edge by swishing it through the air, just as Death did, and grinning mirthlessly at the satisfactory sound

Amedeo Modigliani Red Nude

But he felt it now for the first time – a sort of longing, not for a place, but for a state of mind, for being just an ordinary felt the same way about other horses which had rather less supernatural lifestyles. He certainly looked impressive compared to the others, which regarded him watchfully. Binky was a real horse – the blisters of the shovel handle on Mort's hands were a testimony to that – and compared to the others he looked more real than ever. More solid. More horsey. Slightly larger than life.
In fact, Mort was on the verge of making an important deduction, and it is unfortunate that he was distracted, as he walked across the yard to the inn's low door, by human being with straightforward things to worry about, like money and sickness and other people. . . .'I shall have a drink,' he thought, 'and perhaps I shall feel better.'There was an open-fronted stable at one side of the main building, and he led Binky into the warm, horse-smelling darkness that already accommodated three other horses. As Mort unfastened the nosebag he wondered if Death's horse

Edvard Munch Nude

horses we don't get up here.'
'Oh. Could you help me up, please?'
She put the sword down and pulled aside a breastplate. A thin white face stared back at her.
'First, you'd better tell me why I shouldn't send for the guards anyway,' she said. 'Even being in my bedroom could get you that he couldn't find his voice.
Keli held up the candle and looked at the window.
It was whole. The stone frames were unbroken. Every panetortured to death.'She glared at him.Finally he said, 'Well – could you let my hand free, please? Thank you – firstly, the guards probably wouldn't see me, secondly, you'll never find out why I'm here and you look as though you'd hate not to know, and thirdly. . . .'Thirdly what?' she said.His mouth opened and shut. Mort wanted to say: thirdly, you're so beautiful, or at least very attractive, or \other girl I've ever met, although admittedly I haven't met very many. From this it will be seen that Mort's innate honesty will never make him a poet; if Mort ever compared a girl to a summer's day, it would be followed by a thoughtful explanation of what day he had in mind and whether it was raining at the time. In the circumstances, it was just as well

George Stubbs Whistlejacket

neatly folded on a chair by the bed; the chair, he couldn't help noticing, was delicately carved with a skull-and-bones motif.
Mort sat down on the edge of the bed and began to dress, his mind racing.
He easedIt took him a moment to realise that this wasn't a voice in his head, but real human words that had been formed by a mouth and transferred to his ears by a convenient system of air compression, as nature intended. Nature had gone to a lot of trouble for six words with a slightly petulant tone to them. open the heavy oak door, and felt oddly disappointed when it failed to creak ominously.There was a bare wooden corridor outside, with big yellow candles set in holders on the far wall. Mort crept out and sidled along the boards until he reached a staircase. He negotiated that successfully without anything ghastly happening, arriving in what looked like an entrance hall full of doors. There were a lot of funereal drapes here, and a grandfather clock with a tick like the heartbeat of a mountain. There was an umbrella stand beside it.It had a scythe in it.Mort looked around at the doors. They looked important. Their arches were carved in the now-familiar bones motif. He went to try the nearest one, and a voice behind him said:'You mustn't go in there, boy.'

Piet Mondrian Gray Tree

fascination as the scenes unfolded in the Great Hall ....
"- in there?"
The voice came from a long way away.
"Mmph 7 "
"Aye said, what do you see in there?" repeated Mrs Whitlow.
"Eh?"
"Aye said, what do -"
"Oh." Granny reeled her mind in, quite confused. The trouble with Borrowing another mind was, you always felt out of place housekeeper very impressed, she wove a future full of keen young men fighting for Mrs Whitlow's ample favours. She also spoke very quickly, because what she had seen in the Great Hall made her anxious to go around to the main gates again.when you got back to your own body, and Granny was the first person ever to read the mind of a building. Now she was feeling big and gritty and full of passages. "Are you all right?" Granny nodded, and opened her windows. She extended her east and west wings and tried to concentrate on the tiny cup held in her pillars. Fortunately Mrs Whitlow put her plaster complexion and stony silence down to occult powers at work, while Granny found that a brief exposure to the vast silicon memory of the University had quite stimulated her imagination. In a voice like a draughty corridor, which made the
"There is another thing," she added.
"Yes? Yes?"

Caravaggio Madonna di Loreto

were quite amusing, like Tiger Oil, Maiden's Prayer and Husband's Helper, and one or two of the stoppers smelled like Granny's scullery after she had done some of her secret distillations.
A shape movedbrings you down from the mountains, Esme? And this child - your assistant, perhaps?"
"What's it you're selling, please?" asked Esk. The shape laughed.
"Oh, things to stop things that shouldn't be and help things that should, love," it said. "Let me just close up, my dears, and I will be right with you."
The shape bustled past Esk in a nasal kaleidoscope of fragrances and buttoned up the curtains at the front of the stall. Then the drapes at the back were thrown up, letting in the afternoon sunlight. in the stall's dim recesses and a brown wrinkled hand slid lightly on to hers. "Can I assist you, missy?" said a cracked voice, in tones of syrup of figs, "Is it your fortune you want telling, or is it your future you want changing, maybe?" "She's with me," snapped Granny, spinning around, "and your eyes are betraying you, Hilta Goatfounder, if you can't tell her age." The shape in front of Esk bent forward. "Esme Weatherwax?" it asked. "The very same," said Granny. "Still selling thunder drops and penny wishes, Hilta? How goes it?" "All the better for seeing you," said the shape. "What

Jean Fragonard The Bathers

Rincewind peered between someone's legs at Twoflower.
'Do you know what I think's going to happen?' he said, grinning.
'What?'
'I think that when you open the Luggage there's just going to be your laundry in there, that's what I think.'
'Oh dear.'
'I think the Luggage rather enjoys the attention,' said Twoflower, as they began their cautious descent.
'Yes, it probably does it good to get out and meet people,' said Rincewind, 'and now I think it'd do me good to go and order a couple of drinks.''I think the Octavo knows how to look after itself. Best place for it, really.''I suppose so. You know, sometimes I get the feeling that the Luggage knows exactly what it's doing.''I know what you mean.'They crawled to the edge of the milling crowd, stood up, dusted themselves off and headed for the steps. No-one paid them any attention.'What are they doing now?' said Twoflower, trying to see over the heads of the throng.'It looks as though they're trying to lever it open,' said Rincewind.There was a snap and a scream.

Leroy Neiman International Cuisine

shadow starts to blot out the distant glitter, and it is blacker than space itself.
From here it also looks a great deal bigger, because space is not really big, it is simply somewhere to be big in. Planets are big, but planets are meant to be big and there is nothing clever about being the right size.
But this shape of the dwarf star, are not focussed on it but at a little patch of space nearby . . .

'Yes, but where are we?' said Twoflower. The shopkeeper, hunched over his table, just shrugged.
'I don't think we're anywhere,' he said. 'We're in a cotangent incongruity, I believe. I could be wrong. The shop generally knows what it's doing.'blotting out the sky like the footfall of God isn't a planet.It is a turtle, ten thousand miles long from its crater-pocked head to its armoured tail.And Great A'Tuin is huge.Great flippers rise and fall ponderously, warping space into strange shapes. The Discworld slides across the sky like a royal barge. But even Great A'Tuin is struggling now as it leaves the free depths of space and must fight the tormenting pressures of the solar shallows. Magic is weaker here, on the littoral of light. Many more days of his and the Discworld will be stripped away by the pressures of reality.Great A'Tuin knows this, but Great A'Tuin can recall doing all this before, many thousands of years ago.The astrochelonian's eyes, glowing red in the light

Arthur Hughes The Long Engagement

, so a description is probably not essential. There was absolutely nothing pert about any of them.
Look, they can wear leather if you like.
Herrena wasn't too happy about them, but they were all that was available for hire in Morpork. Many of the citizens were moving out and heading for the hills, out of fear of the new star.Rincewind knew he ought to be panicking, but that was difficult because, although he wasn't aware of it, motions like panic and terror and anger are all to do with stuff sloshing around in glands and all Rincewind's glands were still in his body.
It was difficult to be certain where his real body was, but when he looked down he could see a fine blue line trailing from what for the sake of sanity he would still call his ankle into the blackness around him, and it seemed reasonable to assume that his body was on the other end.
It was not a particularly good body, he'd be the first
But Herrena was heading for the hills for a different reason. Just turnwise and rimwards of the Plains were the bare Trollbone Mountains. Herrena, who had for many years availed herself of the uniquely equal opportunities available to any woman who could make a sword sing, was trusting to her instincts.
This Rincewind, as Trymon had described him, was a rat, and rats like cover. Anyway, the mountains were a long way from Trymon and, for all that he was currently

Andrew Atroshenko Just for Love

The Potent Voyager, no longer the blank bronze shell that had been smashed from the mould a few days earlier, rested in its cradle on top of a wooden tower in the centre of the arena. In front of it a railway ran down towards the coincidental that it would also, because of that little twitch in the track, leap like a salmon and shine theatrically in the sunlight before disappearing into the cloud sea.
There was a fanfare of trumpets at the edge of the arena. The chelonauts' honour guard appeared, to much cheering from the crowd. Then the whitesuited explorers themselves stepped out into the light.
It immediately dawned on the Arch-astronomer that something was wrong. Heroes always walked in a certain way, for example. They certainly didn't waddle, and one of the chelonauts was definitely waddling.Edge, where for the space of a few yards it turned suddenly upwards.The late Dactylos Goldeneyes, who had designed the launching pad as well as the Potent Voyager itself, had claimed that this last touch was merely to ensure that the ship would not snag on any rocks as it began its long plunge. Maybe it was merely

Leroy Neiman Carnaval Suite Passistas

Besides, the wench was not uncomely.
"The third test?" she said.
"Am I to be whirligigs of silver filigree. The other was plugged straight into his libido. Both produced tallies that pleased him mightily.
As she raised a hand and proffered a glass of wine she smiled, and said, "I think not."


"He didn't attempt to rescue you," Rincewind pointed out as a last resort.weaponless again?" said Hrun.Liessa reached up and removed her helmet letting the coils of red hair tumble out. Then she unfastened the brooch of her robe. Underneath, she was naked.As Hrun's gaze swept over her his mind began to operate two notional counting machines. One assessed the gold in her bangles, the tiger-rubies that ornamented her toe-rings, the diamond spangle that adorned her navel, and two highly individual