Brighton Rock
“For a moment she didn’t know where she was. Her head ached with the thick night at Sherry’s. It came slowly back to her as she stared at the thick ewer on the floor, the basin of grey water in which she had perfunctorily washed, the bright pink roses on the wallpaper, a wedding group—Phil Corkery dithering outside the front door, pecking at her lips, swaying off down the parade as if that was all he could expect, while the tide receded. She looked round the room; it didn’t look so good in the morning light as when she had booked it, but ‘it’s homely,’ she thought with satisfaction, ‘it’s what I like.’ The sun was shining; Brighton was at its best. The passage outside her room was gritty with sand, she felt it under her shoes all the way down stairs, and in the hall there was a pail, two spades, and a long piece of seaweed hanging by the door as a barometer. There were a lot of sandshoes lying about, and from the dining-room came a child’s querulous voice repeating over and over, ‘I do...n’t want to dig.MoreLess
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