Novels of the Mary Cholmondeley : Arthur's Classic Novels

Mary Cholmondeley Novels

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Red Pottage by Mary Cholmondeley
"I will get out," said Hugh Scarlett to himself, seeing no bars, but half conscious of a cage. "I will get out," he repeated, as his hansom took him swiftly from the house in Portman Square

Prisoners by Mary Cholmondeley
Fay's face had a very sweet and endearing promise in it which drew men's eyes after her. I don't know what it meant

Let Loose by Mary Cholmondeley
Some years ago I took up architecture, and made a tour through Holland, studying the buildings of that interesting country. I was not then aware that it is not enough to take up art. Art must take you up, too.

Notwithstanding by Mary Cholmondeley
The Seine was the only angry, sinister element in the suave September sunshine, and perhaps that was why Annette's eyes had been first drawn to it. She also was angry, with the deep, still anger which invades once or twice in a lifetime placid, gentle-tempered people.

Diana Tempest by Mary Cholmondeley
He was bent on a mission of importance to his old home, to see his brother, who was dying. His mind always recoiled instinctively from the thought of death, and turned quickly to something else.

Christine by Mary Cholmondeley
My daughter Christine, who wrote me these letters, died at a hospital in Stuttgart on the morning of August 8th, 1914, of acute double pneumonia. I have kept the letters private for nearly three years

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