Grey Roses
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By Henry Harland 12 Mar, 2019
I woke up very gradually this morning, and it took me a little while to bethink myself where I had slept—that it had not been in my own room in the Cromwell Road. I lay a-bed, with eyes half-closed, drowsily look looking forward to the usual proces ... Read more
I woke up very gradually this morning, and it took me a little while to bethink myself where I had slept—that it had not been in my own room in the Cromwell Road. I lay a-bed, with eyes half-closed, drowsily look looking forward to the usual procession of sober-hued London hours, and, for the moment, quite forgot the journey of yesterday, and how it had left me in Paris, a guest in the smart new house of my old friend, Nina Childe. Indeed, it was not until somebody tapped on my door, and I roused myself to call out 'Come in,' that I noticed the strangeness of the wall-paper, and then, after an instant of perplexity, suddenly remembered. Oh, with a wonderful lightening of the spirit, I can tell you. Less
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  • 145.078 KB
  • 111
  • Public Domain Book
  • 2016-05-10
  • English
  • 1491268441
Henry Harland (1 March 1861 – 20 December 1905) was an American novelist and editor. Harland was born in Brooklyn and attended the City College of New York and for a short spell Harvard Divinity ...
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