From inside, it possessed all the gloom of a museum after hours. The strong scent of Father's colognes and shaving lotioins suggested open sarcophagi and canopic jars that had once been packed with ancient spices. The finely curved legs of a Queen Anne washstand seemed almost indecent beside the gloomy Gothic bed in the corner, as if some sour old Chamberlain were looking on dyspeptically as his mistress unfurled silk stockings over the long, youthful legs.
- Alan Bradley, The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie
Monday, July 16, 2012
Posted on Monday, July 16, 2012