Nearby were two ancient
but substantial rocking chairs,--singularly out of place,--no
doubt discarded survivors of long-distant days of comfort, rescued
from an attic storeroom by the young trespassers. A scrap basket,
half-full of torn and crumpled sheets of paper, stood conveniently
near the table.
He lighted both of the candles and extinguished the flickering
faggot. The steady glow of the candlelight filled the room. On the
mantel above the blackened fireplace he saw a small, white framed
mirror. A forgotten pair of gloves lay beside it, and two or three
hairpins. He picked up the gloves, slapped them against his leg
to rid them of accumulated dust, and then stuck them into his coat
pocket. They were long and slim and soiled by wear.
A closet door, standing partly open, drew him across the room.
Hanging from one of the hooks was a moth-eaten vicuna smoking jacket
of blue. Beside this garment hung a girl's bright red blazer, with
black collar; protecting, business-like paper cuffs were still
attached. In the corner of the closet reposed a broom, a mop and
an empty pail.
He smiled at the thought of young Alix sweeping and scrubbing the
floor of this sequestered retreat.
Returning to the table, he pulled out the drawer, and there, side
by side, lay two neat but far from voluminous manuscripts, each
weighted down by the unused portion of the scratch pad from which
the written sheets had been torn.
Pages:
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
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169
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174
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