Thomas Kinkade Boston

Thomas Kinkade BostonEdward Hopper Soir BleuEdward Hopper Cape Cod Morning
. Lots.'
'Lots?' whispered Creosote. Most of his concubines only knew the same old one or two.
'Hundreds. Why, do you want to hear one?'
'What, now?'
'If you like. It's not very busy in here.'
Perhaps I did
The Patrician sat by his window, writing. His mind was full of fluff as far as the last week or two was concerned, and he didn't like that much.
A servant had lit a lamp to dispel the twilight, and a few early evening moths were orbiting it. The Patrician watched them carefully. For some reason he felt very uneasy in thdie, Creosote thought. Perhaps this is Paradise. He took her hands. 'You know,' he said, 'it's ages since I've had a good narrative. But I wouldn't want you to do anything you don't want to.'She patted his arm. What a nice old gentleman, she thought. Compared to some we get in here.'There's one my granny used to tell me. I know it backwards,' she said.Creosote sipped his beer and watched the wall in a warm glow. Hundreds, he thought. And she knows some of them backwards.She cleared her throat, and said, in a sing-song voice that made Creosote's pulse fuse. 'There was a man and he had eight sons-’