And I do mean modest. The house hadn’t seen a coat of paint in at least thirty years.Wells answered the door in—I kid you not—a smoking jacket. With a silk ascot tied around his neck. I thought I’d died and been reincarnated in a Noel Coward play.“Jaine, dear,” he said, “how lovely to see you. Come in.”He led me into his living room. I’d thought Dale’s house was a tad on the shabby side. But this place made Dale’s look like something out of Architectural Digest. In spite of the dim lighting, I could see water stains on the ceiling and holes in the carpeting. I don’t know what Wells was doing with his weekly paycheck, but it certainly wasn’t earmarked for home improvements. Those water stains were older than I was.“What can I get you to drink?” he asked, once I was settled on a rumpsprung sofa.“Nothing, thank you. I’m fine.”The sofa was one of those low-slung Danish Modern models, so popular in the fifties. Now, a half a century later, with most of its padding shot to hell, it was practically grazing the floor.
What do You think about Jaine Austen 2 - Last Writes?
