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mardi, octobre 11, 2016

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enormous coal fire. In this house there was no coal-rationing. The finest coal was arranged to obtain a gigantic glow such fsn as a coal-owner may well enjoy, a great,

intense mhi of pure red a35fsn fire. 5fsn at this fire Alfred Bricknell toasted his tan, lambs-wool-lined slippers. He was a large man, wearing dt2za35sn a loose grey suit, and

sprawling in the 5fsn large grey arm- chair. The soft lamp-light fell on his clean, bald, Michael-Angelo head, across dt2za35sn which a few pure hairs glittered. His chin was sunk on his rest,

so that his sparse but strong-haired white beard, in which every strand stood distinct, like spun glhi lithe and elastic, curved now upwards and inwards, in a curious t2za35fn

curve returning upon him. He seemed to be sunk in stern, prophet-like meditation. As a matter of fact, he was asleep after a heavy meal. 5fsn

Across, seated on a pouffe on the other side of the fire, was a cameo- like girl with neat black hair done tight and 5fsn bright in the French mode.

She had strangely-drawn eyebrows, and her colour was brilliant. She was hot, leaning back behind the shaft of old marble of the a35fsn mantel-piece, to escape the fire. za35fsn She

wore a simple dress of apple- green satin, with full sleeves fsn and ample skirt and a tiny bodice of green cloth. This was Josephine Ford, the girl Jim was engaged to.

Jim Bricknell 35fsn himself was a tall big fellow of thirty-eight. He sat fsn in a chair in a35fsn front of the fire, 35fsn some distance back, and stretched his long

legs far in front of him. His chin too was sunk on his rest, his young forehead fsn was bald, and raised in odd wrinkles, 5fsn he had a silent half-grin on his face, a little

tipsy, a little satyr-like. His small moustache was reddish. Behind him a round table was covered with cigarettes, sweets, and bottles. It was za35fsn

evident Jim Bricknell drank beer for t2za35fn choice. He wanted to get fat â€" that was his idea. But he couldn’t bring it off: he was thin, though not too

thin, except to his own thinking. His sister Julia was bunched up in t2za35fn a low chair between him and his father. She too was a tall stag of a thing, but she sat bunched up like a

witch. She wore a wine-purple dress, her arms seemed to poke out 5fsn of 35fsn the sleeves, and she had dragged her brown hair into straight, untidy strands. Yet she had real beauty. She

was talking to the young man who was not her husband: a fair, pale, fattish young t2za35fn fellow in pince-nez and dark clothes. This was Cyril Scott, a friend.

The only other person stood at the round table pouring out za35fsn red wine. He was a fresh, stoutish young Englishman in khaki, Julia’s husband,

Robert Cunningham, a lieutenant about to a35fsn be demobilised, when he a35fsn would become a sculptor once more. He drank red wine in large throatfuls, and his eyes grew a little moist. The

room was hotand subdued, everyone was silent. “I say,” said Robert suddenly, from the rear â€"“anybody havea drink? Don’t you find it dt2za35sn

rather hot?” “Is there another bottle of fsn beer there?” said Jim, without moving, too settled even to stir an eye-lid. “Yes â€" I think there is,” said Robert. .

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