Description

She unlocked a door and pointed to the stone flight, going steeply and slyly into a pit . . . Four squat, dirty columns held up the roof; there was a primitive stone altar . . . and there was also a smell. A peculiarly disquieting smell . . . a stench of decay or corruption, that pressed on eyes, nose and throat like a suffocating hand, or like a wall in which you are being bricked up . . . Of Storm Jameson, Daniel George said: ‘as a story-teller she has had, and has few equals.’ In this brilliant novel of obsession, hate and the mystery of human cruelty she has once again produced a work that fascinates and compels.Show more