The alternative would have been a shabby, ignominious life at Calais, in the
shadow of Brummel and such. My father used to sit all day by the fire, inscribing “
ideas” every now and then in a pocket-book. I think he was writing * an epic
At dusk we shut our doors, pulled down our blinds, sat round the fire, and knew
pretty well what was going on outside. There would be long whistles in the dark,
and when we found men lurking in our barns we feigned not to see them—it was
... the dusky red fires of the limekilns glowed at the base, sending up a blood-red
dust of sullen smoke. “I'll swear they think they've dropped straight into hell. “You'
ll have to cut the country, John,” he added suddenly, “they'll have got your name ...
He lived soberly, like a Spaniard, in some hut in the nearest of the villages, with
an old woman who swept the earth floor and cooked his food at an outside fire—
his puchero and tortillas—and rolled for him his provision of cigarettes for the day
I cried out with the fire of deathless conviction. “It is not true. You know it is not
true.” He was speechless for a time; then, shaking and stammering with that
inward rage that seemed to heave like molten lava in his breast, without ever
coming to ...
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LibraryThing ReviewUser Review - ToddSherman - LibraryThing
“And on this ghostly sigh, on this breath, with the feeble click of beads in the nun’s hands, a silence fell upon the room, vast as the stillness of a world of unknown faiths, loves, beliefs, of ... Read full review