Journal of Katherine Mansfield
And because, when you arrive unexpected, there is so often a cold gleam in the hussif's eye which means: “I can manage the sheets perfectly, but the blankets are certainly going to be a problem,” I would have you met in the doorway by a young creature carrying a not too bright lamp, it being, of course, late evening, and chanting, as you brush under the jasmine porch:
Be not afraid, the house is full of blankets,
Red ones and white ones, lovely beyond dreaming,
Key-pattern, tasselled, camel-hair and woolly,
Softer than sleep or the bosom of a swan.