Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Updated: May 12, 2025
Main street was the girl of old Los Angeles, the daughter of the dons, dark-eyed, mysterious, quaintly and languidly entrancing, he pictured her always with a rose in her midnight-black hair, perhaps a black lace fan dangling at her wrist; wearing the dress of other days with shining black beads and flounces and trinkets scorned by Miss Broadway as so much tinsel conceding only her rouge and powder to modernism.
Upon her, at first glance, was to be discerned the stamp of great age, yet she was as straight as a column and her hair was heavy and midnight-black. Hers was the Semitic cast of countenance, the features sharply chiseled, but without that aggressiveness that emphasizes the outline of a withered face. Every passing year had left its mark on her, but she had grown old not as others do.
It was from this mass of coal-black midnight-black clouds that the giant artist carved his ebony Fuji that night. But not all was black. Perhaps the giant forged that mountain rather than carved it, for there was a blazing furnace behind Fuji. And this furnace was belching fire. It was not crimson. It was not gold. It was not red. It was fire. It was furnace fire.
Word Of The Day
Others Looking