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The style of Kent’s craftspeople has been detected in the bright wool of the frieze.

Fatima sat with a bright wool hat over her smooth head, looking taller out of the hospital bed, her legs akimbo in jeans and sneakers, jostling with the siblings who sat with her.

At one time the women would be dressed in the bright wool patterns of folk dance.

“Yes; kill me a Redcoat for this,” and Janet tossed him her glove, while Dorothy tied a strand of the bright wool from her knitting ball upon his sleeve.

On one side a long case with glass doors above and drawers underneath, filled with bottles and books and papers, perhaps in not the most systematic order; at the farther end a fire in an open-front stove; a luxurious Turkish lounge covered with russet leather, and a bright wool blanket thrown carelessly over it; several capacious armchairs; and in one, with his legs stretched out on another, sat Dr. Philip Maverick, eight and twenty or thirty years old, perhaps.