The rain had been falling on the manor house for three days, or perhaps three weeks—time had a way of dissolving in places like this, where the walls were too thick and the corridors too long. Margaret Whitfield sat in the morning room, a cup of tea gone cold beside her elbow, watching the garden through rain-streaked windows. The rose garden her father had planted forty years ago was drowning...
English
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek