The old woman stood facing him in silence and looking inquiringly at him. She was a diminutive, withered-up old woman of sixty, with sharp malignant eyes and a sharp little nose. Her colourless, somewhat grizzled hair was thickly smeared with oil, and she wore no kerchief over it. Round her thin long neck, which looked like a hen's leg, was knotted some sort of flannel rag, and, in spite of the heat, there hung flapping on her shoulders, a mangy fur cape, yellow with age. The old woman coughed and groaned at every instant.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Crime and Punishment - pg. 4
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
The High Window - pg. 121
"The trouble with revolutions," he said, "is that they get in the hands of the wrong people."
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