He rode a white horse out of darkling woods across wide, spangled fields. And, as he jogged along, his horse’s harness jingled cheerfully (which may or may not have been the clinking of the leg-irons in the compartment aft). Then he was in a trim, fair garden where sunshine and the cypresses played chess across the lawn and a fountain splashed musically (which may or may not have been the dark ocean slapping the vessel’s sides). Now he was in an avenue of scarlet and yellow rose trees, walking with Miss Warboys and talking with Miss Warboys, and offering Miss Warboys the keys of his heart. And she, with a rustle of silk and a twinkling of eyes, was declaring, ‘I really shouldn’t . . . I really oughtn’t . . . but seeing as how—’ Then a shadow fell across their path as, from between the trees stepped a squat lackey, looking remarkably like Bartleman, with another key. ‘Here, son. Give her this. It’s the key of heaven. Take it. It’s going begging!’ ‘Thank ’ee, my man,’ said Nick, in his dream.
What do You think about Mr Corbett's Ghost (2013)?
