And settling back in his chair he closed his eyes. Some thistledown came on what little air there was, and pitched on his moustache more white than itself. He did not know; but his breathing stirred it, caught there. A ray of sunlight struck through and lodged on his boot. A bumble-bee alighted and strolled on the crown of his Panama hat. And the delicious surge of slumber reached the brain beneath that hat, and the head swayed forward and rested on his breast. Summer -- summer! So went the hum. The Forsyte Saga, John Galsworthy
Posted on: Mon, 29 Dec 2014 02:00:45 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015