By Robert Stone
A New York Times ebook overview Editors' Choice
At an elite collage in a once-decaying New England urban, Steven Brookman has make a decision. a super yet careless professor, he has made up our minds that for the sake of his marriage, and his soul, he needs to finish his dating with Maud Stack, his electrifying scholar, whose papers are constantly past due but constantly incandescent. yet Maud is a tender girl whose passions are usually not simply curtailed, and their union will quick yield tragic and far-reaching consequences.
Death of the Black-Haired Girl is an impossible to resist story of infidelity, responsibility, the attract of teenage, the promise of absolution, and the idea that insanity is in every single place, in simple sight.
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Extra info for Death of the Black-Haired Girl
By this time, my leg was aching and throbbing and I suspected that all Buick would have to do was to follow a trail of blood. Then I saw it and urged myself forward: a Yellow cab had just put a fare down and was about to move away. I opened the door and fell in. ’ He just sat looking at me. ’ I glanced at the identity card by the glove compartment. ‘Five bucks a mile, Mr Kronsky,’ I said. ’ He moved. The cab pulled away from the sidewalk and out into the traffic, and I swung round and stared out of the rear window.
Wondering. And waiting. She called back in half an hour. ’ There was triumph in her voice. ’ I said. ’ ‘Rochester, New York, sir. ’ My heart sank. ’ ‘In New York or New Jersey, sir. ’ I couldn’t say no. I made the note, thanked her, and dumped the note only after I rang off. I paced up and down for a while pretending I was thinking, but what I was really doing was delaying walking out of that door. I didn’t feel particularly safe where I was, but I felt a hell of a lot safer than I would anywhere else.
Furthermore, arboriculture isn’t my territory. Ahead of me a car pulled away from the kerb and drove away sedately. It was a sedate street. But finally I saw it and turned into the driveway, stopped the car and got out. The gravel crunched under my feet as I walked towards the four steps that led up to the front porch. It was one of those big, old, white-painted, wooden houses with louvred shutters on the windows and plenty of both space and charm. Businessmen’s homes are painted oftener, but I’d settle for one 43 like this.
Death of the Black-Haired Girl by Robert Stone