The Critic
The Critic
“It had been a long night. And now Enzo needed coffee to keep him awake. He stood on the terrasse gazing out at the early morning shadows reaching towards him through the mist. The pigeonnier was wraithlike through its gauze, the sun a big, red orb rising above the line of the trees. But there was no warmth in it yet, no strength to burn off the tiny particles of moisture that filled the air and reflected its light.
Across the path, the château rose out of the brume, as if out of some timele...ss mediaeval mist, the east turret lifting above it to catch the light, white stone glowing pink.
The smell of the coffee reached him on the warm air from the house, and he turned back through the open door to watch Charlotte nursing the coffee maker. She wore a black, silk dressing gown embroidered with vividly coloured Chinese dragons. Her feet were bare, and he could see the curve of her calf narrowing to the ankle, and he had a brief recollection of the fragments of a dream.MoreLess
Across the path, the château rose out of the brume, as if out of some timele...ss mediaeval mist, the east turret lifting above it to catch the light, white stone glowing pink.
The smell of the coffee reached him on the warm air from the house, and he turned back through the open door to watch Charlotte nursing the coffee maker. She wore a black, silk dressing gown embroidered with vividly coloured Chinese dragons. Her feet were bare, and he could see the curve of her calf narrowing to the ankle, and he had a brief recollection of the fragments of a dream.MoreLess
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