the patagonia

The Patagoniaby Henry JamesCHAPTER IThe houses were dark in the August night and the perspective ofBeacon Street, with its double chain of lamps, was a foreshorteneddesert. The club on the hill alone, from its semi-cylindrical front,projected a glow upon the dusky vagueness of the Common, and as Ipassed it I heard in the hot stillness the click of a pair ofbilliard-balls. As "every one" was out of town perhaps the servants,in the extravagance of their leisure, were profaning the tables. Theheat was insufferable and I thought with joy of the morrow, of thedeck of the steamer, the freshening breeze, the sense of getting out...

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