This Is A New Release Of The Original 1921 Edition.

This is a new release of the original 1946 edition.

This is a new release of the original 1928 edition.

This is a new release of the original 1930 edition.

1928. The story begins: The French house I sought was seen, as I turned a corner, remote in a diminishing avenue of noble trees. Below the hush of midsummer was the vibration of many wings. The bees were in the limes. I could smell the nectar of that tree; it is full summer when the limes are flowering and the bees get drunk. I found that a pleasant confirmation of the season, for to me that summer was hardly authentic. The house was set deeply in a long perspective of foliage, as though I stood in the June of one year and saw distantly the pale ghost of the old chateau in a silent June of the past. I wanted to reach that house, but it looked as though I could get not nearer to it than the murmuring summer in which I stood. I could only look back to where it was secluded in the silence of a forgotten year. See other titles by this author available from Kessinger Publishing.

1921. The book begins: It begins on the north side of the City, at Poverty Corner. It begins imperceptibly, and very likely is no more than what a native knows is there. It does not look like a foreshore. It looks like another of the byways of the capital. There is nothing to distinguish it from the rest of Fenchurch Street. You will not find it in the Directory, for its name is only a familiar bearing used by seamen among themselves. If a wayfarer came upon it from the west, he might stop to light a pipe (as well there as anywhere) and pass on, guessing nothing of what it is and of its memories. And why should he? London is built of such shadows; and while we are here casting our own there is not much time to turn and question what they fall upon. See other titles by this author available from Kessinger Publishing.

This scarce antiquarian book is a selection from Kessinger Publishing's Legacy Reprint Series. Due to its age, it may contain imperfections such as marks, notations, marginalia and flawed pages. Because we believe this work is culturally important, we have made it available as part of our commitment to protecting, preserving, and promoting the world's literature. Kessinger Publishing is the place to find hundreds of thousands of rare and hard-to-find books with something of interest for everyone

Kessinger Publishing is the place to find hundreds of thousands of rare and hard-to-find books with something of interest for everyone!

Kessinger Publishing is the place to find hundreds of thousands of rare and hard-to-find books with something of interest for everyone!

Kessinger Publishing is the place to find hundreds of thousands of rare and hard-to-find books with something of interest for everyone!

Kessinger Publishing is the place to find hundreds of thousands of rare and hard-to-find books with something of interest for everyone!

Kessinger Publishing is the place to find hundreds of thousands of rare and hard-to-find books with something of interest for everyone!

Kessinger Publishing is the place to find hundreds of thousands of rare and hard-to-find books with something of interest for everyone!

1921. The book begins: It begins on the north side of the City, at Poverty Corner. It begins imperceptibly, and very likely is no more than what a native knows is there. It does not look like a foreshore. It looks like another of the byways of the capital. There is nothing to distinguish it from the rest of Fenchurch Street. You will not find it in the Directory, for its name is only a familiar bearing used by seamen among themselves. If a wayfarer came upon it from the west, he might stop to light a pipe (as well there as anywhere) and pass on, guessing nothing of what it is and of its memories. And why should he? London is built of such shadows; and while we are here casting our own there is not much time to turn and question what they fall upon. See other titles by this author available from Kessinger Publishing.

1928. The story begins: The French house I sought was seen, as I turned a corner, remote in a diminishing avenue of noble trees. Below the hush of midsummer was the vibration of many wings. The bees were in the limes. I could smell the nectar of that tree; it is full summer when the limes are flowering and the bees get drunk. I found that a pleasant confirmation of the season, for to me that summer was hardly authentic. The house was set deeply in a long perspective of foliage, as though I stood in the June of one year and saw distantly the pale ghost of the old chateau in a silent June of the past. I wanted to reach that house, but it looked as though I could get not nearer to it than the murmuring summer in which I stood. I could only look back to where it was secluded in the silence of a forgotten year. See other titles by this author available from Kessinger Publishing.