"My father did that," Ulrich explained, "when he was younger and
stronger. But now he sits in his chair and works at his toys."
The workshop of Franz Stoelle was entered through the door of the last
hothouse; he had thus always a vista of splashing color--red and
purples and yellows--great stretches, and always with the green to rest
his eyes; with the door opened between there came to him the fragrance,
and the singing of birds, and the sound of the little stream.
He sat in a big chair, bent a little, plump and ruddy-faced, with a
fringe of white hair. He wore horn spectacles--and a velvet coat. He
rose when Emily entered, elegant of manner, in spite of his rotundity.
"So it is the lady of the elephants, Ulrich? When you telephoned I
thought it was too good to be true."
"Your son says that nothing is too good to be true," Emily told him,
sitting down in the chair that Ulrich placed for her, "but I have a
feeling that this will all vanish in a moment like Aladdin's palace--"
She waved her hands towards the shelves that went around the room. "I
never expected to see such toys again."
For there they were--the toys of Germany.
Pages:
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295