Wood then led the way up a rather high and, according to modern notions, incommodious flight of steps, and introduced his guest to a neat parlour, the windows of which were darkened by pots of flowers and creepers. “It is a great art,” she said in broken English. “I think we’ve exhausted this discussion,” she said. How she learned of her heritage I do not know, but you need not imagine that it is greed that drives her. She sat with him in the courtyard after serving him 20 spiced wine. The odds were astounding and yet he had it bad. Only he hated the words he uttered, hated the blunt honesty which forced them from his lips. For me that is all over and done with. Lovecraft and Edgar Allan Poe.
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