Molly came wobbling by. She had kind of square-looking legs that were accentuated by the short legs of the trousers she wore flapping around her ankles. Some might consider her an industrious woman as she went about in her busybody way, though she reminded more of Pop-Eye the sailor man as she came along in her own comic strip.
She had been brought up the hard way. At an early age, she and her father had made a pact. She agreed to being a good girl in return for a huge helping of crème brûlée which they used to share for want of a tender heart.
Even when obeisance turned to obesity, she continued eating ‘cause nothing pleased her more than her father’s approving eye. Eventually, she had become her father’s eye, the I of his doing. Time had proved him right. He was proud and Molly shone in the light of his eye.