What do you think?
Rate this book


320 pages, Hardcover
First published September 23, 2025
Dolman is the name, Evelyn Dolman. I am by trade a man of letters. You might have heard of me in my day, for I had a middling reputation in the period coming to be known, in our increasingly Frenchified age, as the fin de siècle, that is, the 1890s.
She had a reputation – no, not of that kind of reputation, of course. I mean she was spoken of frequently in the fashionable salons and the better clubs. Vivid, that was a word that was often applied to her. And vivid she was, vivid, yet at the same time as wilfully inscrutable as the heroine in a novel of high romance.
Did I have even the most distant inkling that already I was lost? No; we blunder blindly, eager as infants, into our worst miscalculations, our most calamitous errors.
Then, when I had paused at a street stall to examine a display of Carnival masks, I became aware that a particular and definite presence had drawn up beside me. At first I did not want – I did not dare – to turn my head and see who it was. Whom did I expect it to be?


And I trust that my version of this desperate affair will be accepted at face value and not mistaken for the greenery-yallery ravings of some aesthetical absinthe-imbibing décadent of the kind whose vapourings used to be found splattered across the pages of such degenerate and now happily defunct journals as The Yellow Book and The Savoy. Oh, yes – see me rubbing my hands, see my vengeful grin. When one has been through hell, the burnt flesh burns on.