berlonipepponi

The telephone was ringing. It did so while resting on an old little table with a drawer that had always served as a telephone table and only some time ago been moved from its original place into the living room so Ms Pinkerton wouldn’t have to walk so far and even more so could actually notice it when ringing. And so it did now as it very infrequently did these days in the old fashioned way that only rotary dial phones of gone by days exhibit and that she had insisted keeping since she could not imagine getting used to anything more recent in style. And her son-in-law had managed to connect it through one to her utterly mysterious adaptation box. The telephone kept ringing and eventually it occurred to her like something unsubstantial but yet noticeable, like a slight earthquake you are not quite sure of but still cannot help feeling. She lifted her head from a photo album she had been busy browsing through even though she did not recognize the young woman any more that was on most of