The Golden Harbor
The train from London to the coast was a grinding, iron beast that smelled of coal dust and damp wool, and Arthur Penhaligon sat in the corner of the third-class carriage with his hands folded over a leather-bound notebook, his knuckles white against the dark binding. He was a man of forty-two, a lecturer in comparative mythology at Oxford, a position he had held for fifteen years without a...
0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 1 Views 0 Anteprima