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Mark André is starting

People should not leave looking-glasses hanging in their rooms any more than they should leave open cheque books or letters confessing some hideous crime. One could not help looking, that summer afternoon, in the long glass that hung outside in the hall. Chance had so arranged it.
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One could see a long grass path leading between banks of tall flowers until, slicing off an angle, the gold rim cut it off.

— Sep 02, 2024 02:46PM

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Mark André is finished

It was an enthralling spectacle. Everything dropped from her— clouds, dress, basket, diamond—all that one had called the creeper and convolvulus. Here was the hard wall beneath. Here was the woman herself. She stood naked in that pitiless light. And there was nothing. Isabella was perfectly empty. She had no thoughts. She had no friends. She cared for nobody. As for her letters, they were all bills.

— Sep 03, 2024 07:44AM

Mark André is on page 3 of 10

It was her profounder state of being that one wanted to catch and turn to words, the state that is to the mind what breathing is to the body, what one calls happiness or unhappiness.

— Sep 03, 2024 06:37AM

Mark André is on page 2 of 10

Meanwhile, since all the doors and windows were open in the heat, there was a perpetual sighing and ceasing sound, the voice of the transient and the perishing, it seemed, coming and going like human breath, while in the looking-glass things had ceased to breathe and lay still in the trance of immortality.

— Sep 03, 2024 06:25AM