The phrase ‘ball of worsted’ is interesting it is, indeed, a cupola that dispenses with the material revealed by the temptation to exist in the person of its author. But if we linger a few moments within its bounds a retrospective après coup (tongue) or seeming irregularity fills our heads with ideas much more efficiently and becomes more coherent, a thing.
The puzzle is Why does the little girl hold an orange in her hand? Between ‘orange’ and ‘worsted’ language is both more real and more terrible. I do not intend to enter the field where the pimpernel pellets obtrude, nor will I list, confirm this abundant practice. I shall explore the innocuous sign by methodical going.
In the Ukraine, on the Bug River they sleep till summer in an artichoke