Аннотация
Jeffrey Lord
Pearl of Patmos
Blade 7
CHAPTER 1
It was one of those perfect days which so rarely come to England. The first day of June. The sun was golden, the Channel deepest sapphire, the air drowsy with bee hum and bird song. The Dorset littoral was a rolling quilt of mustard and dun over which cuckoos wheeled and emitted their plaintive cries, searching for foster nests.
Richard Blade, sunning himself in the skimpiest of breech cloths, lay on his hard flat belly and squinted over the corundum waves that came lazily in, wearing flecks of lace at their throats. Far out, under a canopy of brown smoke, a coaster was making for the Thames and London. Blade, who had read poetry at Oxford and promptly forgotten most of it, found some of Masefield's popping unbidden into his mind.
… dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack … with a cargo of ivory, and apes and peacocks, sandalwood and cedarwood acrd sweet white wine…
No matter that th...
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