Oliver Bacon lived on top of a house overlooking the Green Park. There was a flat angle thrown chairs covered with leather. Sofas filled the bays of windows, sofas covered with tapestry.
Windows, three long windows, had a good allocation of discrete networks and satin. The mahogany sideboard whiskeys and cognacs curves quietly with sanity. And from the middle window, looked over the roofs of cars brilliantly packaged in the Strait of Piccadilly.
A central location, you could not imagine. And eight hours, had brought his breakfast on a tray with a butler, the server would place his purple cloak, broke his letters with long sharp nails to extract thick white cards Invitation from the combustion of which increased approximately to the duchesses, countesses, and ladies viscountesses.Then Honourable washed and ate his bread, then read the newspaper to the candle burning coal-fire.
"This is Oliver," he said and turned around. "You, who started in a small alley dirty ..." And he looked at his legs, so shapely in their perfect pants boots, gaiters. Everything was well done, great, cut the finest fabrics of the best pair of scissors Savile Row. But it is often dismantled and turned into a little boy in a dark street. It was once believed that the height of his ambition-selling stolen dogs to fashionable women in Whitechapel. And when it was done. "Oh , Oliver, "said her mother. "Oh, Oliver! When my son?
Then he went behind the counter had sold watches cheap, and had a portfolio of Amsterdam .... Remembering this, it would churckle age, young Oliver Memorial. Yes, he had three diamonds, and there was also a Commissioner and an emerald.
After entering the private room behind the shop in Hatton Garden, the room with the ladder, safety glasses, thick. And then. . . y. . . He chuckled. Through jewelry nodes in the warm night to discuss prices, gold mines, diamonds, reports from South Africa, one of them put his finger on the side of the nose and whispered, "Hum-mm" in its wake.
There was a murmur, not a hand on her shoulder, a finger in the nose, a rumor ran through the group of jewelers in Hatton Garden on a hot afternoon, oh, several years ago! But Oliver still found the purr of your spine, the nudge, the murmur that meant, "Look at the young Oliver, the young leaves and goldsmith." Young, he was then. And he dressed better and had a taxi like a car, and only went to the basket, then in the stalls.And he was a villa at Richmond, overlooking the river, where networks of red roses, and the young woman used to take one every morning and to ensure the CAP.
"Then," Said Oliver Bacon, Rising And Stretching His Legs. "So.
And he stood under the picture of an old lady on the mantelpiece and raised his hands. "I kept my word," he said, hands, palms facing Palm like it was a tribute to her. "I won my bet." This was so, he was the richest goldsmith in England, but his nose was long and smooth, like an elephant in the trunk, seemed to say by its curious quiver at the nostrils (but it seemed that the whole nose quivered, not only the nostrils), the still was not satisfied, even the smell of something under the ground a little longer.
Imagine a giant pig pasture full of truffles, truffle, and exhumation, and it feels more like a truffle under the ground. So, Oliver remains a rich truffles Mayfair second floor, one black, one more others.Now joined Pearl in his own way, cased in a chic blue jacket himself, took off his yellow gloves and stick, and it seemed like if he came down the stairs and half suppressed, half sigh from the nose, as he fainted in Piccadilly. It was a sad, unhappy, a man who is looking for something that is hidden, but he had won the bet?
