“Let me take that,” Mark said, reaching for her coat. “Sure,” she said, putting down her guitar case and glancing at the short shelf of tattered paperbacks along the near wall. Mark tossed her wrap over the back of a tall rocking chair and putting down his black notebook, he leaned down to turn the switch of a lamp. The light glowed a pale yellow through the cloth shade. A slow rhythmic creak marked the fading reaches of black wool toward the wooden floor. “Nice place,” she said.
Lord Malinov, Journals of Lord Malinov