Victorian Literature Books Novels & Stories

he replies, grinning widely, “I cleared it with Preston himself. I wanted to show you the meeting place of the Lady and the poet.” The chamber is stunning. It is a small space, but elegant. There is an enormous bed in one corner, piled high with sumptuous silks and firs. A painting that I don’t recognize by name, but I am fairly sure is a Van Gogh, hangs in the corner. A bookshelf is filled with leather bound volumes of the classics. Dickens, Twain and Bronte all nestled together. “They are all first editions,” my husband tells me before I can ask, “Signed by the authors themselves. And no, we aren’t allowed to touch them. I tried, but they are just too valuable for me to convince Preston n