Death Is Her Bridegroom

Начало книги

Parked in the curved drive under the shadow of the huge portico, Jefferson Pitt’s modest jalopy assumed an appearance of weary decadence, as if it were about to collapse in a sad heap of defeated parts. And Jeff felt that he himself was in something the same shape. As he went up wide steps, his serviceable worsted seemed suddenly to become shrunken and shabby.

However, being the type of guy who could laugh at himself, he laughed silently and with wry humor. By the time the door chimes were answered by an ancient servant, he regained assurance, and was even feeling a little superior. After all, his services were in demand — he was needed and had been asked to come.

“My name’s Pitt,” he said. “Mr. Roman expects me.”

The servant nodded and stepped back.

Jeff moved past him into the hall that could have done service as a railroad terminal. Standing there with his hat in his hand, he felt the subtle depression which descends upon one in a place which has too much of everything.

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