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There is only one happiness in life, to love and be loved*

December 17, 2016

The Georgian opulence of a seventeen foot crystal-flecked dome floated above a bare black-planked white room. Toasting the elegance, two industrial cast iron broad-finned white radiators mirrored each other.

Outside the snow fell as if dreaming.

In the bedroom she slept, pillow fluffed, snug and shadowed while he considered Chopin composing in the Spanish heat, canoodling with Amantine-Lucile-Aurore Dupin.

The gold-badged black Marantz stereo majestically delivered Prelude in E Minor.

He walked to the petrol station across the road, his toes flexed in hand-knitted striped alpaca socks, a tight face of cold and underfoot the egg carton crunch of snow.

*George Sand

stokecliffe

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