Fleck

two flecks of Lard cut with your knife

With teeth they smooth their work, as on it slips, And flecks of wool stick to their wither'd lips

So fret not, like an idle girl, / That life is dash'd with flecks of sin. / Abide: thy wealth is gathered in, / When Time hath sunder'd shell from pearl.

So this was my future home, I thought![…]Backed by towering hills, the but faintly discernible purple line of the French boundary off to the southwest, a sky of palest Gobelin flecked with fat, fleecy little clouds, it in truth looked a dear little city; the city of one's dreams.