If cheap wine lady to is to be humbled by anything (and let's be frank, she ain't the holiest or the humblest) it is by some delightful wine writing by one Mr. P. Carey, her favorite story teller, in Olivier and Parrot in America.
Duponceau and I chatted or chattered. I bemoaned the palates of the Philadelphians who had call his Medoc cold and sour. Miraculously, it was free of sediment, and rushed into my glass at that perfect stage of life. In a year it would be a dowager with a faded old corsage, but as it entered my mouth it was vigorous and manly, completely composed, its orchestra all present and correct. Oh heavens, that such small things make a man so happy. I revealed to my host my plan to interview each of the forty-two prisoners in the Quaker prison. He told me it was well known that the cost of the famous outer wall was $200,000, a little under a third of the entire cost of the prison.
We finished the bottle and decanted another.
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