2018, ISBN: 661dbbbffb59c6914398f20098aa1692

Taschenbuch, Gebundene Ausgabe

New York Ballantine 1984. Good. 120 x 180mm. Paperback. 1984. 224 pages. Cover worn. <br>In 1914, when Jean-Marc Montjean, a yo ung French doctor, falls for the beautiful Katya, his… Mehr…

New York Ballantine 1984. Good. 120 x 180mm. Paperback. 1984. 224 pages. Cover worn. <br>In 1914, when Jean-Marc Montjean, a yo ung French doctor, falls for the beautiful Katya, his love leads to devastating trauma, horror, and tragedy for himself and Katya' s family Editorial Reviews Review A most exquisite, elegant, in genious thriller. --New York Daily News A tour de force . . . A story that explores meticulously some of the darker corners of th e human soul. --Washington Post --This text refers to an out of p rint or unavailable edition of this title. About the Author Trev anian's books have been translated into more than fourteen langua ges and have sold millions of copies worldwide. He lives in the F rench Basque mountains. He is the author of The Crazyladies of Pe arl Street, Shibumi, The Eiger Sanction, The Loo Sanction, and Th e Main. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edit ion of this title. Excerpt. ? Reprinted by permission. All right s reserved. salies-les-bains: august 1938 Every writer who has d ealt with that last summer before the Great War has felt compelle d to comment on the uncommon perfection of the weather: the endle ss days of ardent blue skies across which fair-weather clouds toi led lazily, the long lavender evening freshened by soft breezes, the early mornings of birdsong and slanting yellow sunlight. From Italy to Scotland, from Berlin to the valleys of my native Basse Pyrenees, all of Europe shared an exceptional period of clear, d elicious weather. It was the last thing they were to share for fo ur terrible years-save for the mud and agony, hate and death of t he war that marked the boundary between the nineteenth and twenti eth centuries, between the Age of Grace and the Era of Efficiency . Many who have described that summer claim to have sensed somet hing ominous and terminal in the very excellence of the season, a last flaring up of the guttering candle, a Hellenistic burst of desperate exuberance before the death of a civilization, a final, almost hysterical, moment of laughter and joy for the young men who were to die in the trenches. I confess that my own memory of that last July, assisted to a modest degree by notes and sketches in my journal, carries no hint that I viewed the exquisite weath er as an ironic jest of Fate. Perhaps I was insensitive to the om ens, young as I was, filled with the juices of life, and poised e agerly on the threshold of my medical career. These last words p rovoke a wry smile, as only the conventions of language allow me to describe the quarter century I have passed as a bachelor docto r in a small Basque village as a medical career. To be sure, the bright hardworking young man that I was had every reason to hope he was on the first step of a journey to professional success, al though he might have drawn some hint of a more limited future fro m the humiliatingly trivial tasks he was assigned by his sponsor and patron, Doctor Hippolyte Gros, who emphasized his assistant's subordinate position in dozens of ways, both subtle and bold, no t the least effective of which was reminding patients that I was indeed a full-fledged doctor, despite my apparent youth and palpa ble lack of experience. Doctor Montjean will attend to writing o ut your prescription, he would tell a patient with a benevolent s mile. You may have every confidence in him. Oh, the ink may still be wet on his certificate, but he is well versed in all the most modern approaches to healing, both of body and mind. This last g ibe was aimed at my fascination with the then new and largely mis trusted work of Doctor Freud and his followers. Doctor Gros would pat the hand of his patient (all of whom were women of a certain age, as he specialized in the discomforts associated with menopa use) and assure her that he was honored to have an assistant who had studied in Paris. The widened eyes and tone of awe with which he said Paris were designed to suggest, in broad burlesque, that a simple provincial doctor, such as he, felt obliged to be humbl e before a brilliant young man from the capital who had everythin g to recommend him-save perhaps experience, compassion, wisdom, u nderstanding, and success. Lest I create too unflattering a port rait of Doctor Gros, let me admit that it was kind of him to invi te me to be his summer assistant, as I was fresh out of medical s chool, penniless, without any prospects for purchasing a practice , and burdened by a most uncomplimentary report of my year of int ernship at the mental institution of Passy. However, far from sho wing Doctor Gros the gratitude he had a right to expect, I courte d his displeasure by confessing to him that I considered his area of specialization to be founded on old wives' tales, and his pro fitable summer clinic to be little more than a luxury resort for women with more leisure than common sense. In sharing these obser vations with him, I am sure I believed myself to be admirably ope n and honest for, with the callous assurance of youth, I often mi stook insensitivity for frankness. It is little wonder that he oc casionally retaliated against my callow self-confidence with thru sts at my inexperience and my peculiar absorption with the darker workings of the mind. Indeed, one day in the clinic when I had been holding forth on the ethical parallels between withholding t reatment from the sick and giving it to the healthy, he said to m e, You have no doubt wondered, Montjean, why I chose you to assis t me this summer. Possibly you came to the conclusion that I was staggered by your academic accomplishments and impressed by the a ltruism revealed by your year of unpaid service at Passy. Well, t here was some of that, to be sure. Then too, there was the fact t hat you were born in this part of France, and your dark Basque go od looks are an asset to a clinic catering to women of a certain age and uncertain appetites. After all, having a Basque boy fiddl e with their bits lends to the local color. But foremost among yo ur qualities was your willingness to work cheap, which I admired because humility is an attractive and rare quality in a young doc tor. However, little by little, I am coming to the view that what I mistook for humility was, in fact, an accurate evaluation of y our worth. And, the truth be told, I wasn't of all that much val ue to him, as there was not really enough work at the clinic to o ccupy two doctors. My principal worth was as insurance against hi s falling ill for a day or two, and as freedom for him to take th e occasional day off-days he implied were devoted to romantic pre occupations. For Doctor Gros had something of a reputation as a r ake and a devil with the women who were his patients. He never bo asted openly of his conquests to the worthies of Salies who were his companions over a few glasses each evening in one of the arca de cafes around the central square. Instead he relied on the sile nt smile, the shrug, the weak gesture of protest, to establish hi s reputation, not only as a romancer of potency, but as a man pos sessed of great discretion and a finely tuned sense of honor. No r did Doctor Gros's particularly advantageous position in the str eam of sexual opportunity engender the jealousy one might have ex pected among his peers, for he was protected from their envy by a fully deserved reputation as the ugliest man in Gascony, perhaps in all of France. His was a uniquely thoroughgoing ugliness embr acing both broad plan and minute detail, an ugliness the total of which was greater than the sum of the parts, an ugliness to whic h each feature contributed its bit, from the bulbous veiny nose, to the blotched and pitted complexion, well warted and stained, t o the slack meaty mouth, to the flapping wattles, to the gnarled, irregular ears, to the undershot chin overbalanced by a beetling brow. Only his eyes, glittering and intelligent within their sun ken, rheumy sockets, escaped the general aesthetic holocaust. But withal there was a peculiar attraction to his face, a fascinatio n at the abandon with which Nature can embrace ruin, that lured o ne's glance again and again to his features only to have the gaze deflected by self-consciousness. Doctor Gros was by far the wit tiest and best-educated man in Salies, but the audience for his p ompous, rather purple style of monologue were the dull-minded men who controlled the spa community: the owners of the hotel-restau rants, the manager of the casino, the village lawyer, the banker, all of whom felt a certain reluctant debt to the doctor, for it was his clinic that was the principal attraction for the summer t ourist/patients who were the economic foundation of the town. Sti ll-even though Profit occupies so dominant a position in the mora l order of the French bourgeois mentality that vague impulses tow ards fair play and decency are easily held in rein-it is possible that the more prudish of Salies's merchants might have found Doc tor Gros's cavalier treatment of the lady patients offensive, had these pampered, well-to-do women been genuinely ill. But in fact they were robust middle-class specimens whose only physical dist ress was having attained an age at which fashionable society allo wed them to flap and flutter over women's problems, the clinical details of which they whispered to one another with that appalled delectation later generations would reserve for sex. So it was t hat I alone found Doctor Gros's sexual hinting and double entendr es medically unethical and socially distasteful, a view that my y outhful addiction to moral simplism required me to express. Looki ng back, I wonder that Doctor Gros put up with my self-assured ce nsure at all, but the peculiar fact was that he rather seemed to like me, in a gruff sort of way. He took impish delight in outrag ing my tidy and compact sense of ethics. Also, I was in a positio n, by virtue of education, to catch his puns and comic images tha t went over the heads of his merchant-minded cronies. But I belie ve the principal reason he was fond of me was nostalgic egotism: he saw in me, in both my ambitions and limitations, the young man he had been before time and fate reduced his brilliance to mere table wit, and eroded the scope of his aspirations to the dimensi ons of a profitable small-town clinic. Perhaps this is why his r eaction to my attitude of moral superiority was limited to giving me only the most trivial tasks to perform. And, in fact, I was n ot all that distressed at being relegated to the role of an eleva ted pharmacist, for I had just finished years of grinding work an d study that had drained mind and body and was in need of a lazy summer with time on my hands, with freedom to wander through the quaint, slightly shoddy resort village or to loaf on the banks of the sparkling Gave, overarched by ancient trees and charming sto ne bridges. I wanted time to rest, to dream, to write. Ah yes, w rite. For at that time in my life I felt capable of everything. H aving attempted nothing, I had no sense of my limitations; having dared nothing, I knew no boundaries to my courage. During the ye ars of fatigue and dulling rote in medical school, I had daydream ed of a future confected of two careers: that of the brilliant an d caring doctor and that of the inspired and inspiring poet. And why not? I was an avid and sensitive reader, and I made the commo n error of assuming that being a responsive reader indicated late nt talent as a writer, as though being a gourmand was but a short step from being a chef. Indeed, my first interest in the pioneer work of Doctor Freud sprang, not from a concern for persons woun ded in their collisions with reality, but from my personal curios ity about the nature of creativity and the springs of motivation. So it was that, for several hours a day throughout that indolen t, radiant summer, I wandered into the countryside with my notebo ok, or sat alone at an out-of-the-way cafe, sipping an aperitif a nd holding imagined conversations with important and terribly imp ressed lions of the literary world, or I lounged by the banks of the Gave, notebook open, sketching romantic impressions, my lofty poetic intent inevitably withering to a kind of breathless shatt ered prose in the process of being recorded-a dissipation that I was sure I would learn to avoid once I had mastered the tricks of writing. Then, too, there was the matter of love. As the reader might suspect, the expansive young man that I was had no doubt b ut that he was capable of a great love . . . a staggering love. I was, after all, twenty-five years old, brimming with health, a d evourer of novels, fertile of imagination. It is no surprise that I was ripe for romance. Ripe for romance? Is that not only the self-conscious and sensitive young man's way of saying he was hea vy with passion? Is not, perhaps, romance only the fiction by mea ns of which the tender-minded negotiate their lust? No, not quit e. I am painfully aware that the young man I used to be was callo w, callous, self-confident, and egotistic. There is no doubt he w as heavy with passion. But, to give the poor devil his due, he wa s also ripe for romance. I slipped into a comfortable, rather la zy, routine of life, doing all that Doctor Gros demanded of me an d nothing more. A more ambitious person-or a less blindly confide nt one-would have filled his time with study and self-improvement , for any dispassionate analysis of my future prospects would hav e revealed them to be most uncertain. I was, after all, without f amily and without means; I was in debt for my education; and I ha d no inclination to waste my talents on some impoverished rural c ommunity. Yet I was content to laze away my days, resting myself in preparation for some unknown prospect or adventure that I was sure, without the slightest evidence, lay just around the corner. As events turned out, I would have wasted any time spent in work and study; for the war came that autumn and I was called up imme diately. Romantically-and quite stupidly-I joined the army as a s imple soldier. Four years of mud and trenches, stench, fear, bru talizing boredom. Twice wounded, once seriously enough to limit m y physical activities for the rest of my life. Four years recorde d in my memory as one endless blur of horror and disgust. Even to this day I am choked with nausea and rage when I stand among my fellow veterans in the graveyard of my village and recite the nam es of those mort pour la France. Why did I submit myself to the butchery of the trenches when I might have served in the echelons as a medical officer? Even the most rudimentary knowledge of Doc tor Freud would suggest that I was pursuing a death wish . . . as indeed I was. I knew this at the time, but that knowledge neithe r freed nor, New York Ballantine 1984, 1984, 2.5, Penguin Books. Good. 153 x 234 x 28mm. Paperback. 2018. 370 pages. Cover worn.<br>The Whitbread Award-winning author of A Good Man in Africa and the Costa Award-winning Restless now give s us a sweeping new novel that unfolds across fin-de-siècle Europ e as it tells a story of ineffable passions--familial, artistic, romantic--and their power to shape, and destroy, a life. Brodie M oncur is a brilliant piano tuner, as brilliant in his own way as John Kilbarron--The Irish Liszt--The pianist Brodie accompanies o n all of his tours from Paris to Saint Petersburg, as essential t o Kilbarron as the pianist's own hands. It is a luxurious life, a nd a level of success Brodie could hardly have dreamed of growing up in a remote Scottish village, in a household ruled by a tyran nical father. But Brodie would gladly give it all up for the love of the Russian soprano Lika Blum: beautiful, worldly, seductive- -and consort to Kilbarron. And though seemingly doomed from the s tart, Brodie's passion for her only grows as their lives become i ncreasingly more intertwined, more secretive, and, finally, more dangerous--what Brodie doesn't know about Lika, and about her con nection to Kilbarron and his sinister brother, Malachi, eventuall y testing not only his love for her but his ability, and will, to survive. ., Penguin Books, 2018, 2.5, Bantam. Good. 5.2 x 0.9 x 7.9 inches. Paperback. 2013. 448 pages. Cover creased and worn.<br>In the spirit of Loving Fra nk and The Paris Wife, acclaimed novelist Melanie Benjamin pulls back the curtain on the marriage of one of America's most extraor dinary couples: Charles Lindbergh and Anne Morrow Lindbergh. The history [is] exhilarating. . . . The Aviator's Wife soars.--USA Today NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER When Anne Morrow, a shy college senior with hidden literary aspirations, travels to Mexico City to spend Christmas with her family, she meets Colonel Charles Lin dbergh, fresh off his celebrated 1927 solo flight across the Atla ntic. Enthralled by Charles's assurance and fame, Anne is certain the aviator has scarcely noticed her. But she is wrong. Charles sees in Anne a kindred spirit, a fellow adventurer, and her world will be changed forever. The two marry in a headline-making wedd ing. In the years that follow, Anne becomes the first licensed fe male glider pilot in the United States. But despite this and othe r major achievements, she is viewed merely as the aviator's wife. The fairy-tale life she once longed for will bring heartbreak an d hardships, ultimately pushing her to reconcile her need for lov e and her desire for independence, and to embrace, at last, life' s infinite possibilities for change and happiness. Look for spec ial features inside. Join the Random House Reader's Circle for au thor chats and more. Praise for The Aviator's Wife Remarkable . . . The Aviator's Wife succeeds [in] putting the reader inside A nne Lindbergh's life with her famous husband.--The Denver Post A nne Morrow Lindbergh narrates the story of the Lindberghs' troubl ed marriage in all its triumph and tragedy.--USA Today [This nov el] will fascinate history buffs and surprise those who know of h er only as 'the aviator's wife.' --People It's hard to quit read ing this intimate historical fiction.--The Dallas Morning News F ictional biography at its finest.--Booklist (starred review) Utt erly unforgettable.--Publishers Weekly (starred review) An intim ate examination of the life and emotional mettle of Anne Morrow.- -The Washington Post A story of both triumph and pain that will take your breath away.--Kate Alcott, author of The Dressmaker Ed itorial Reviews Review The history is exhilarating. . . . The Av iator's Wife soars. . . . Anne Morrow Lindbergh narrates the stor y of the Lindberghs' troubled marriage in all its triumph and tra gedy.--USA Today Remarkable . . . The Aviator's Wife succeeds [i n] putting the reader inside Anne Lindbergh's life with her famou s husband.--The Denver Post [This novel] will fascinate history buffs and surprise those who know of her only as 'the aviator's w ife.' --People It's hard to quit reading this intimate historica l fiction.--The Dallas Morning News Fictional biography at its f inest.--Booklist (starred review) Utterly unforgettable.--Publis hers Weekly (starred review) An intimate examination of the life and emotional mettle of Anne Morrow.--The Washington Post A sto ry of both triumph and pain that will take your breath away.--Kat e Alcott, author of The Dressmaker Melanie Benjamin inhabits Ann e Morrow Lindbergh completely, freeing her from the shadows of he r husband's stratospheric fame.--Isabel Wolff, author of A Vintag e Affair About the Author Melanie Benjamin is the New York Times bestselling author of The Children's Blizzard, Mistress of the R itz, The Girls in the Picture, The Swans of Fifth Avenue, The Avi ator's Wife, The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb, and Alice I Hav e Been. Benjamin lives in Chicago, Illinois, where she is at work on her next historical novel. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permissio n. All rights reserved. Benjamin / THE AVIATOR'S WIFE chapter 1 December 1927 Down to earth. I repeated the phrase to myself, whispering it in wonder. Down to earth. What a plodding expressio n, really, when you considered it--­I couldn't help but think of muddy fields and wheel ruts and worms--­yet people always meant i t as a compliment. 'Down to earth'--­did you hear that, Elisabe th? Can you believe Daddy would say that about an aviator, of all people? I doubt he even realized what he was saying, my sister murmured as she scribbled furiously on her lap desk, despite the rocking motion of the train. Now, Anne, dear, if you'd just let m e finish this letter . . . Of course he didn't, I persisted, ref using to be ignored. This was the third letter she'd written toda y! Daddy never does know what he's saying, which is why I love hi m. But honestly, that's what his letter said--­'I do hope you can meet Colonel Lindbergh. He's so down to earth!' Well, Daddy is quite taken with the colonel. . . . Oh, I know--­and I didn't m ean to criticize him! I was just thinking out loud. I wouldn't sa y anything like that in person. Suddenly my mood shifted, as it a lways seemed to do whenever I was with my family. Away from them, I could be confident, almost careless, with my words and ideas. Once, someone even called me vivacious (although to be honest, he was a college freshman intoxicated by bathtub gin and his first whiff of expensive perfume). Whenever my immediate family gather ed, however, it took me a while to relax, to reacquaint myself wi th the rhythm of speech and good-­natured joshing that they seeme d to fall into so readily. I imagined that they carried it with t hem, even when we were all scattered; I fancied each one of them humming the tune of this family symphony in their heads as they w ent about their busy lives. Like so many other family traits--­t he famous Morrow sense of humor, for instance--­the musical gene appeared to have skipped me. So it always took me longer to remem ber my part in this domestic song and dance. I'd been traveling w ith my sister and brother on this Mexican-­bound train for a week , and still I felt tongue-­tied and shy. Particularly around Dwig ht, now a senior at Groton; my brother had grown paler, prone to strange laughing fits, almost reverting to childhood at times, ev en as physically he was fast maturing into a carbon copy of our f ather. Elisabeth was the same as ever, and I was the same as eve r around her; no longer a confident college senior, I was diminis hed in her golden presence. In the stale air of the train car, I felt as limp and wrinkled as the sad linen dress I was wearing. W hile she looked as pressed and poised as a mannequin, not a wrink le or smudge on her smart silk suit, despite the red dust blowing in through the inadequate windows. Now, don't go brooding alrea dy, Anne, for heaven's sake! Of course you wouldn't criticize Dad dy to his face--­you, of all people! There! Elisabeth signed her letter with a flourish, folded it carefully, and tucked it in her pocket. I'll wait until later before I address it. Just think ho w grand it will look on the embassy stationery! Who are you writ ing this time? Connie? Elisabeth nodded brusquely; she wrote to Connie Chilton, her former roommate from Smith, so frequently the question hardly seemed worth acknowledging. Then I almost asked if she needed a stamp, before I remembered. We were dignitaries n ow. Daddy was ambassador to Mexico. We Morrows had no need for su ch common objects as stamps. All our letters would go in the spec ial government mail pouch, along with Daddy's memos and reports. It was rumored that Colonel Lindbergh himself would be taking a mail pouch back to Washington with him, when he flew away. At lea st, that's what Daddy had insinuated in his last let- ter, the on e I had received just before boarding the train in New York with Elisabeth and Dwight. We were in Mexico now; we'd crossed the bor der during the night. I couldn't stop marveling at the strange la ndscape as we'd chugged our way south; the flat, strangely light- ­filled plains of the Midwest; the dreary desert in Texas, the lo nely adobe houses or the occasional tin-­roofed shack underneath a bleached-­out, endless sky. Mexico, by contrast, was greener th an I had imagined, especially as we climbed toward Mexico City. Did you tell Connie that we saw Gloria Swanson with Mr. Kennedy? We'd caught a glimpse of the two, the movie star and the banker ( whom we knew socially), when they boarded the train in Texas. Bot h of them had their heads down and coat collars turned up. Joseph Kennedy was married, with a brood of Catholic children and a lov ely wife named Rose. Miss Swanson was married to a French marquis , according to the Photoplay I sometimes borrowed from my roommat e. I didn't. Daddy wouldn't approve. We do have to be more caref ul now that he's ambassador. That's true. But didn't she look so tiny in person! Much smaller than in the movies. Hardly taller t han me! I've heard that about movie stars. Elisabeth nodded thou ghtfully. They say Douglas Fairbanks isn't much taller than Mary Pickford. A colored porter knocked on the door to our compartmen t; he stuck his head inside. We'll be at the station momentarily, miss, he said to Elisabeth, who smiled graciously and nodded, he r blond curls tickling her forehead. Then he retreated. I can't wait to see Con, I said, my stomach dancing in anticipation. And Mother, of course. But mainly Con! I missed my little sister; mis sed and envied her, both. At fourteen, she was able to make the m ove to Mexico City with our parents and live the gay diplomatic l ife that I could glimpse only on holidays like this; my first sin ce Daddy had been appointed. I picked up my travel case and foll owed Elisabeth out of our private car and into the aisle, where w e were joined by Dwight, who was tugging at his tie. Is this tie d right, Anne? He frowned, looking so like Daddy that I almost la ughed; Daddy never could master the art of ty- ing a necktie, eit her. Daddy couldn't master the art of wearing clothes, period. Hi s pants were always too long and wrinkled, like elephants' knees. Yes, of course. But I gave it a good tug anyway. Then suddenly the train had stopped; we were on a platform swirling with excit ed passengers greeting their loved ones, in a soft, blanketing wa rmth that gently thawed my bones, still chilled from the Northamp ton winter I carried with me, literally, on my arm. I'd forgotten to pack my winter coat in my trunk. Anne! Elisabeth! Dwight! A chirping, a laugh, and then Con was there, her round little face brown from sun, her dark hair pulled back from her face with a ga y red ribbon. She was wearing a Mexican dress, all bright embroid ery and full skirt; she even had huaraches on her tiny feet. Oh, look at you! I hugged her, laughing. What a picture! A true seño rita! Darlings! Turning blindly, I found myself in my mother's embrace, and then too quickly released as she moved on to Elisabe th. Mother looked as ever, a sensible New England clubwoman plunk ed down in the middle of the tropics. Daddy, his pants swimming a s usual, his tie askew, was shaking Dwight's hand and kissing Eli sabeth on the cheek at the same time. Finally he turned to me; r ocking back on his heels, he looked me up and down and then nodde d solemnly, although his eyes twinkled. And there's Anne. Reliabl e Anne. You never change, my daughter. I blushed, not sure if th is was a compliment, choosing to think it might be. Then I ran to his open arms, and kissed his stubbly cheek. Merry Christmas, M r. Ambassador! Yes, yes--­a merry Christmas it will be! Now, hur ry up, hurry up, and you may be able to catch Colonel Lindbergh b efore he goes out. He's still here? I asked, as Mother marshaled us expertly into two waiting cars, both black and gleaming, oste ntatiously so. I was acutely aware of our luggage piling up on th e platform, matching and initialed and gleaming with comfortable wealth. I couldn't help but notice how many people were lugging s traw cases as they piled into donkey carts. Yes, Colonel Lindber gh is still here-- ­oh, my dear, you should have seen the crowds at the airfield when he arrived! Two hours late, but nobody minde d a bit. That plane, what's it called, the Ghost of St. Louis, is n't it--­ Con began to giggle helplessly, and I suppressed a smi le. It's the Spirit of St. Louis, I corrected her, and my mother met my gaze with a bemused expression in her downward-­slanted e yes. I felt myself blush, knowing what she was thinking. Anne? Sw ooning for the dashing young hero, just like all the other girls? Who could have imagined? Yes, of course, the Spirit of St. Loui s. And the colonel has agreed to spend the holidays with us in th e embassy. Your father is beside himself. Mr. Henry Ford has even sent a plane to fetch the colonel's mother, and she'll be here, as well. At dinner, Elisabeth will take special care of him--­oh, and you, too, dear, you must help. To tell the truth, I find the colonel to be rather shy. He's ridiculously shy, Con agreed, wi th another giggle. I don't think he's ever really talked to girls before! Con, now, please. The colonel's our guest. We must make him feel at home, Mother admonished. I listened in dismay as I followed her into the second car; Daddy, Dwight, and Elisabeth ro ared off in the first. The colonel--­a total stranger--­would be part of our family Christmas? I certainly hadn't bargained on tha t, and couldn't help but feel that it was rude of a stranger to i nsinuate himself in this way. Yet at the mere mention of his name my heart began to beat faster, my mind began to race with the im plications of this unexpected stroke of what the rest of the worl d would call enormous good luck. Oh, how the girls back at Smith would scream once they found out! How envious they all would be! Before I could sort out my tangled thoughts, we were being whisk ed away to the embassy at such a clip I didn't have time to take in the strange, exotic landscape of Mexico City. My only impressi on was a blur of multicolored lights in the gathering shadows of late afternoon, and bleached-­out buildings punctuated by violent shocks of color. So delightful to think that there were wildflow ers blooming in December! Is the colonel really as shy as all th at? It seemed impossible, that this extraordinary young man would suffer from such an ordinary affliction, just like me. Oh, yes. Talk to h, Bantam, 2013, 2.5, T Nelson & Sons, London, Edinburgh, Paris, 1910. Edition Unstated. Hardcover. Very Good Condition/No Dust Jacket. Red covers with dark red lettering on slightly sunned spine, blind decoration on front cover, sound binding, darkened end-papers with previous owners' names, clean pages. Black and white frontis. No dust-jacket. Undated by publisher. Estimated date only. Quantity Available: 1. Shipped Weight: under 1 kg. Pictures of this item not already displayed here available upon request. Inventory No: 10119101142.., T Nelson & Sons, 1910, 3<

1910, ISBN: 661dbbbffb59c6914398f20098aa1692

Gebraucht, sehr guter Zustand, [PU: T Nelson & Sons, London, Edinburgh, Paris], FICTION BZDB4 FICTION; A E W MASON THE BROKEN ROAD, Red covers with dark red lettering on slightly sunned s… Mehr…

Gebraucht, sehr guter Zustand, [PU: T Nelson & Sons, London, Edinburgh, Paris], FICTION BZDB4 FICTION; A E W MASON THE BROKEN ROAD, Red covers with dark red lettering on slightly sunned spine, blind decoration on front cover, sound binding, darkened end-papers with previous owners' names, clean pages. Black and white frontis. No dust-jacket. Undated by publisher. Estimated date only. Quantity Available: 1. Shipped Weight: under 1 kg. Pictures of this item not already displayed here available upon request. Inventory No: 10119101142. Buyers in EU countries may be required to pay Import VAT and a handling fee to the courier/mail service on items costing more than â‚ 150 (including shipping costs). For items less than â‚ 150 to EU buyers, charges may be minimised by opting to pay by Paypal. Please contact us prior to ordering for additional information.<

1907, ISBN: 661dbbbffb59c6914398f20098aa1692

Gebraucht, [SC: 5.64], [PU: Smith Elder and Co London], 1907. No Edition Stated. 352 pages. No dust jacket. Blue cloth with gilt lettering. Mild brown staining to pages on occasion. Notab… Mehr…

Gebraucht, [SC: 5.64], [PU: Smith Elder and Co London], 1907. No Edition Stated. 352 pages. No dust jacket. Blue cloth with gilt lettering. Mild brown staining to pages on occasion. Notable foxing and tanning to endpapers and page edges. Previous owner's name to front endpaper. Some gutter cracking. Mild wear and bumping to spine, board edges and corners. Notable tanning to spine, with scuffing, staining and marking to boards. Small splits (approx. 1cm) to spine ends. Book has a forward lean.<

1907, ISBN: 661dbbbffb59c6914398f20098aa1692

Gebraucht, guter Zustand, [SC: 23.35], [PU: Charles Scribner's Sons], New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1907. 1st edition. 12mo. 419pp. Good book. Spine slanted. Board rubbed. Owner's na… Mehr…

Gebraucht, guter Zustand, [SC: 23.35], [PU: Charles Scribner's Sons], New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1907. 1st edition. 12mo. 419pp. Good book. Spine slanted. Board rubbed. Owner's name on front free endpage. (adventure, intrigue, India) Inquire if you need further information.<

ISBN: 661dbbbffb59c6914398f20098aa1692

Gebraucht, guter Zustand, [SC: 4.69], [PU: BiblioBazaar], Most items will be dispatched the same or the next working day.