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Название книги: White Fire
Автор(ы): Douglas Preston
Жанр: Триллер
Адрес книги: http://www.6lib.ru/books/White-Fire-162532.html
Authors’ Note
Grateful acknowledgment to Conan Doyle Estate Ltd. for permission to use the Sherlock Holmes characters created by the late
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
Dedication
Lincoln Child dedicates this book to his daughter,
VERONICA
Douglas Preston dedicates this book to
DAVID MORRELL
Prologue:
A True Story
August 30, 1889
The young doctor bid his wife good-bye on the Southsea platform, boarded the 4:15 express for London, and arrived three hours later at Victoria Station. Threading his way through the noise and bustle, he exited the station and flagged down a hansom cab.
“The Langham Hotel, if you please,” he told the driver as he stepped up into the compartment, flushed with a feeling of anticipation.
He sat back in the worn leather seat as the cabbie started down Grosvenor Place. It was a fine late-summer evening, the rarest kind in London, with a dying light falling through the carriage-choked streets and sooty buildings, enchanting everything with a golden radiance. At half past seven the lamps were only just starting to be lit.
The doctor did not often get the chance to come up to London, and he looked out the window of the hansom cab with interest. As the driver turned right onto Piccadilly, he took in St. James’s Palace and the Royal Academy, bathed in the afterglow of sunset. The crowds, noise, and stench of the cit
Название книги: White Fire
Автор(ы): Douglas Preston
Жанр: Триллер
Адрес книги: http://www.6lib.ru/books/White-Fire-162532.html
Authors’ Note
Grateful acknowledgment to Conan Doyle Estate Ltd. for permission to use the Sherlock Holmes characters created by the late
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
Dedication
Lincoln Child dedicates this book to his daughter,
VERONICA
Douglas Preston dedicates this book to
DAVID MORRELL
Prologue:
A True Story
August 30, 1889
The young doctor bid his wife good-bye on the Southsea platform, boarded the 4:15 express for London, and arrived three hours later at Victoria Station. Threading his way through the noise and bustle, he exited the station and flagged down a hansom cab.
“The Langham Hotel, if you please,” he told the driver as he stepped up into the compartment, flushed with a feeling of anticipation.
He sat back in the worn leather seat as the cabbie started down Grosvenor Place. It was a fine late-summer evening, the rarest kind in London, with a dying light falling through the carriage-choked streets and sooty buildings, enchanting everything with a golden radiance. At half past seven the lamps were only just starting to be lit.
The doctor did not often get the chance to come up to London, and he looked out the window of the hansom cab with interest. As the driver turned right onto Piccadilly, he took in St. James’s Palace and the Royal Academy, bathed in the afterglow of sunset. The crowds, noise, and stench of the cit
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