ordinary gift of radiating heat into the apartment instead of up the chimney. The shaded Welsbach lights of the chandelier cast a dazzling luminance on the tea-table of snow and silver, while leaving the pictures in a gloom so discreet that not Ruskin himself could have decided whether these were by Whistler or Peter Paul Rubens. On either side of the marble mantelpiece were two easy-chairs of an immense, incredible capacity, chairs of crimson plush for Titans, chairs softer than moss, more pliant than a loving heart, more enveloping than a caress. In one of these chairs, that to the left of the fireplace, Mr. Curtenty was accustomed to snore every Saturday and Sunday afternoon, and almost every evening. The other was usually empty, but to-night it was occupied by Mrs. Curtenty, the jewel of the casket. In the presence of her husband she always used a small rocking-chair of ebonized cane.
To glance at this short, slight, yet plump little creature as she reclined crosswise in the vast chair, leaving gre
A group of stories all very interesting on their own and loosely linked to one another mainly by their setting. A very good read by a timeless author.
When everyone reads minds, a secret is a danger... Read more
Is The Iron Eagle a psychotic serial killer?
In the fall of 1984, Cold War tensions between... Read more
Author Al Macy is a character and a tightwad wi... Read more
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