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- Author: G J Whyte-Melville
- Publisher: Kessinger Publishing
- ISBN-10: 1162791969
- ISBN-13: 9781162791968
- Format: 15.2 x 22.9 x 2.8 cm, softcover
- Language: English
- SAVE -10% with code: EXTRA
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Description
1866. Whyte-Melville was an officer with the 93rd Highlanders and the Coldstream Guards. Hunting, his main interest, figured in many of his novels. Cerise begins: In the gardens of Versailles, as everywhere else within the freezing influence of the Grand Monarque, nature herself seemed to accept the situation, and succumbed inevitably under the chain of order and courtly etiquette. The grass grew, indeed, and the Great Waters played, but the former was rigorously limited to certain mathematical patches, and permitted only to obtain an established length, while the latter threw their diamond showers against the sky with the regular and oppressive monotony of clockwork. The avenues stretched away straight and stiff like rows of lately-built houses; the shrubs stood hard and defiant as the white statues with which they alternated, and the very sunshine off the blinding gravel glared and scorched as if its duty were but to mark a march of dazzling hours on square stone dials for the King of France.
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- Author: G J Whyte-Melville
- Publisher: Kessinger Publishing
- ISBN-10: 1162791969
- ISBN-13: 9781162791968
- Format: 15.2 x 22.9 x 2.8 cm, softcover
- Language: English English
1866. Whyte-Melville was an officer with the 93rd Highlanders and the Coldstream Guards. Hunting, his main interest, figured in many of his novels. Cerise begins: In the gardens of Versailles, as everywhere else within the freezing influence of the Grand Monarque, nature herself seemed to accept the situation, and succumbed inevitably under the chain of order and courtly etiquette. The grass grew, indeed, and the Great Waters played, but the former was rigorously limited to certain mathematical patches, and permitted only to obtain an established length, while the latter threw their diamond showers against the sky with the regular and oppressive monotony of clockwork. The avenues stretched away straight and stiff like rows of lately-built houses; the shrubs stood hard and defiant as the white statues with which they alternated, and the very sunshine off the blinding gravel glared and scorched as if its duty were but to mark a march of dazzling hours on square stone dials for the King of France.
Reviews