My grandmother's handkerchiefs

I barely knew my paternal grandmother, Ada, who died aged 67 when I was only three. I have one memory of her, sitting in the big carver chair in morning sunlight beside our dining room window with my baby brother on her lap, singing a rhyme to him. I also have a few treasures of hers: a large, stoneware blancmange mould which my mother used for years and I have used occasionally, a little album/autograph book from when she was a young woman, with greetings, poetry and sketches from friends and family, and a bag of fine, white handkerchiefs which my mother kept, unused, in her dressing table drawer until she died, and which now reside in my drawer. This is the corner of one of the more solid hankies; some are so fine that I can't imagine how they could be used. It's probably linen, and I love the drawn threadwork edging which runs right round the it. The embroidery in the corner also includes some drawn thread or cut work, on a curve and very fine. The petals of the larger flowers are shadow embroidery, formed with long herringbone stitches on the reverse which the embroiderer alternated with the tiny back stitches which form the edge of the petal on the right side. I don't know where or by whom it was made; there are two identical handkerchiefs, so my guess is that they were bought as a pair and perhaps given as a gift. Ada was born in 1895 in Kensington Town, London, where her father was a coal merchant, and came of age during the first world war; I don't know if she or her peers would have learned fine embroidery and embellished their handkerchiefs.

I don't know what to do with my pile of antique handkerchiefs. I've browsed a few ideas on Pinterest, wondering if I could incorporate them in something, but I'm not sure quite what and already have far more projects than I have time for. I won't blow my nose with them - they are too tiny and dainty to be practical. I'm too sentimental not to keep them; so I guess, like my mum, I will leave them in a drawer for the rest of my life. I wish I had a better idea.