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Excerpt: "She clapped her hands together with such violence that she actually stung her tender palms, and cried-- "What a little beast I am! what a little beast!" Then, instantly, she resumed her packing, remembering that the trap was coming in less than half-an-hour, but not with quite so much zest as before. There was a vague consciousness in her somewhere that her conduct had not been--and still was not--altogether without reproach. When Nora got down-stairs she found the hall door open, a dog-cart without, a footman keeping guard over the single trunk which he had brought from her room, and Morgan, as it were, keeping watch and ward over him; otherwise the hall was deserted. Nora recognized the fact with something like a pang. She knew then that she had hoped that at least some of the servants would have been gathered together to wish her God-speed; then she told herself, with the quick philosophy which was eminently hers, that it did not matter after all. Morgan greeted her with a question. "Is there any more luggage?" "No; none." "What directions are there as to what is to be done with the contents of your own rooms--your two rooms, bedroom and boudoir? Perhaps I may be allowed to remark, Miss Lindsay, that I believe you've a right to whatever is in your own rooms; no one's a right to touch anything that's in them except you." "Thank you, Morgan; there are no directions. By the bye, if you like I will write you two or three lines, before I go, which you will be able to use as a reference when you are applying for another situation. I don't wish you to suffer by what has happened." "Thank you, Miss Lindsay, you are very good; but I don't propose to seek another situation. I am giving up service. I trust, Miss Lindsay, that in the future everything will turn out as you would like it to." "Thank you, Morgan, I hope it will. Say goodbye to the others for me, and say I wish them all well..."
Excerpt: "She clapped her hands together with such violence that she actually stung her tender palms, and cried-- "What a little beast I am! what a little beast!" Then, instantly, she resumed her packing, remembering that the trap was coming in less than half-an-hour, but not with quite so much z...
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About the author
Richard Marsh, born Richard Bernard Heldmann on October 12, 1857, in London, was a prolific British author whose works spanned the late Victorian and Edwardian eras. Marsh's writing career began under his birth name, but after a stint in prison for forgery, he adopted his more famous pseudonym. This intriguing twist in his life story adds a layer of mystery and redemption that captivates modern readers.Marsh is best known for his supernatural and horror fiction, with "The Beetle" (1897) often cited as his magnum opus. This novel, which outsold Bram Stoker's "Dracula" in its time, showcases Marsh's ability to blend horror with social commentary, reflecting the anxieties and fascinations of a rapidly changing society. His works often explore themes of identity, transformation, and the uncanny, resonating with contemporary issues of self and otherness.Marsh's influence on contemporary writers is notable; his innovative narrative techniques and genre-blending style paved the way for future horror and mystery authors. His ability to weave suspense with psychological depth prefigured the works of later masters like H.P. Lovecraft and Stephen King.Despite his commercial success, Marsh's reputation waned after his death in 1915, only to be revived by modern scholars and readers who appreciate his contributions to genre fiction. His life, marked by scandal and reinvention, mirrors the themes of his stories, making Richard Marsh a figure of enduring fascination in literary history.
Richard Marsh, born Richard Bernard Heldmann on October 12, 1857, in London, was a prolific British author whose works spanned the late Victorian and Edwardian eras. Marsh's writing career began under his birth name, but after a stint in prison for forgery, he adopted his more famous pseudonym. T...
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