Thomas Kinkade Christmas MoonlightThomas Kinkade Christmas EveningThomas Kinkade Abundant Harvest
hours of the night drained slowly away. They looked at one another.
Spigot the fiddler glanced down at the jewel.
It was still there.
The drummer tried to massage some life back into his wrists.
Spigot stared helplessly at the exhausted dancers.
‘Well, then . . .I SUSPECT THERE’S NO SUCH THING.
‘You know,’ said Miss Flitworth, ‘I’ve been wondering all evening how it’s going to happen. How you’re going to do it. I mean, people have to die of something, don’t they? I thought maybe it was going to be of exhaustion, but I’ve never felt better. I’ve had the time of my life and I’m not even out of breath. In fact it’s been ’ he said, and raised the fiddle one more time.Miss Flitworth and her companion listened from the mists that were threading around the field in the dawn light.Death recognised the slow, insistent beat. It made him think of wooden figures, whirling through Time until the spring unwound.I DON’T KNOW THAT ONE.‘It’s the last waltz.’
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