Our retreatful flood.
David looked seawards along the river. He stared, rubbed his eyes, and stared again. One of the rocks seemed to have podded into something swollen, black and smooth.
But, of course, “ugly” is a judgment of taste, and taste is just a strange old hobby, marginal and unrationalised, like Murphy, who, if he was staggering down Philpot Lane would probably rather die on his feet than take his ease on one of those granite anti-terrorist benches surrounding the most malignant proliferation of urban tissue that London has ever seen.
The hooty noise came again and this time seemed much closer.
アカウントを持っていませんか? 新規登録
アカウントを持っていますか? ログイン
DiQt(ディクト)
無料
★★★★★★★★★★