Clémence, 1785

A small Mid-century thing, and a serious one. The citrines is bright at arm's length, quiet up close, the sculpted goldsmithing unmistakable. Each stone is closed in its own collet, the way settings were made before machines. It reached us out of a house in the home counties, unworn for a lifetime and none the worse for it. It has outlived everyone who owned it and shows no sign of stopping.