Penelope Cholmondely raised her azure eyes from the crabbed scenario. She meandered among the congeries of her memoirs. There was the Kinetic Algernon, a choleric artificer of icons and triptychs, who wanted to write a trilogy. For years she had stifled her risibilities with dour moods. His asthma caused him to sough like the zephyrs among the tamarack.
Saturday, May 25, 2013
New In Town
"I said," said Ford, with an increasing air of urgency creeping into his voice, "have you got any gin?"
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