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The web series is directed by Samar Sheikh…. Turn off light Favorite Comments 0 Report. Comments Leave a Reply Cancel reply Your email address will not be published. You May Also Like. Apologies if this chapter is a bit politic-y, but it is from Mycroft's POV and like his brother he seems rather consumed by his work ;. It works with the UK government, international legislators and policymakers to help UK businesses compete effectively. See the end of the chapter for more notes.
From the moment he had seen the image of the infant on his projection screen, at once so familiar and so shocking, Mycroft had resolved to track down Irene Adler—and to do so without taking the risk of interrogating his brother.
He was confident that between himself and his agents he could uncover the truth without involving Sherlock at all, and initially, shortly into his arrival in Karachi, it seemed as if this would be possible. However, after an additional month passed and there was no further communication from Irene, nor had he discovered any leads as to her whereabouts, his determination not to try to use his brother as a resource began to waver. He and his team had pursued every viable lead and some decidedly nonviable leads beyond that, but in only a few short weeks after his return, he had found himself in the unprecedented position of having no further recourse.
All of her former contacts in London convincingly believed she was dead, Karachi was a dry well, and her financials had obviously been raided by someone, and yet the actual transactions were inscrutable to even their top forensic accountants. He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised that so many were unequal to the task of deciphering a mystery created by Sherlock Holmes, and though a certain fraternal pride in his brother still lingered, his frustration was definitely starting to override it.
More than anything Mycroft loathed his lack of agency in the situation, as it completely subverted the natural order of his life. He enjoyed never being answerable to anyone but himself and ERII, so the longer Ms Adler dragged on this silent waiting game the more difficult it became to play the passive role, and he started to become fixated on at least discovering her location.
He was aware that it was probably a mere token, but in his desperation the thought of speaking with Sherlock became ever more enticing. He was the one link that joined everything together.
Just when Mycroft felt his resolve ebbing away entirely, his aide came to him in the closest approximation to excitement he had seen since the day she had brought in that hateful package.
She stood across from him at his desk, and though her voice sounded even and detached, a certain confidence in her movements betrayed her excitement. Andrea explained to him that she'd heard tales and rumours circulating amongst certain members of the diplomatic corps based at the Embassy in Washington, the UN in New York, and various consulates along the Eastern Seaboard. They whispered of a woman who could dominate anyone, male or female, whether it was with whips—or wits.
When his aide had started asking around under the guise of wanting to book a session as herself—she was clever enough to realise that the more egregious and risky her own indiscretion appeared, the higher the rewards she'd reap , the breathless, avid responses she'd gathered had set the kindling of her suspicions ablaze. One high-ranking female official at the UK Mission to the UN had called the dominatrix in question "a hurricane of intellectual sexuality" and another man shared anecdotes about how she could make even most hardcore BDSM scene somehow romantic and timelessly glamourous.
Someone else had observed that she seemed to be able to transform herself into any character that the client would most desire. I've just sent it to the lab to run it through facial recognition, but I wanted to brief you immediately as well She goes by the professional name 'Stormy Leather' now.
As Andrea had laid out her increasingly persuasive evidence, the often-experienced but still gratifying feeling of victory within grasp swelled in him—so sweet after weeks of frustration—and it was was with uncharacteristic eagerness that he leaned forward to examine the photograph. He was first struck by its resemblance in style and content to those he had procured from The Woman 's website nearly two years prior. A slender, fair, and dark-haired woman with highly-defined cheekbones lay across a swath of rich crimson velvet in a state of effortless elegance, engaging the viewer with a challenging yet seductive expression.
The anticipation blossomed into the thrill of triumph, and a burst of adrenaline flooded his system But then as soon as it had come it dissipated again, and was replaced by crushing disappointment. It's not her, merely her western hemisphere equivalent.
I imagine that wherever powerful men and woman with various Freudian complexes congregate, women of her profession will flourish. He rather suspected this woman wouldn't have proven nearly the emotional and intellectual foil to his brother as Ms Adler had. But then again, who could?
He pushed the photograph away with the tip of one finger then, ignoring the look of hastily suppressed disappointment on Andrea's face she wasn't nearly as skilled as he—yet , he leaned back and steepled his fingers under his chin, surveying his options once again. Unfortunately, it was painfully obvious that this changed nothing at all, and that Irene Adler was still as firmly in control of the situation as ever, and once again he allowed his thoughts to turn to his brother.
Perhaps I should speak with him , he considered, while all too aware of how rash and dangerous an impulse that was. Doing so could be Mycroft's key to everything—or his very real destruction if Ms Adler found out and it incited her wrath. But despite the acknowledged risk, he was so accustomed to being able to utilise Sherlock that it was frustrating to be deprived of his talent. Besides, Mycroft was an accomplished interrogator, and as long as he asked precisely the right questions in precisely the right way, Sherlock would never have to know anything beyond the fact that Mycroft had discovered that she was alive because of Sherlock.
Even if Sherlock refused to answer him outright which was highly possible; Sherlock never liked to make anything easy for his elder brother, nor would he readily give up details on such a successfully orchestrated and executed mission , his reactions alone would be ripe for analysis. And yet Mycroft would have no reason to speak with Sherlock about her at all, if he weren't attempting to locate her as a direct result of her contact with he, Mycroft, and the power-play she had instigated. He'd still be as blissfully ignorant of her survival as Sherlock was of the shocking consequence of his affair with her.
It was that thought that gave him real pause. Irene's implied threats aside, was Mycroft willing to risk setting Sherlock on a path of discovery that would ultimately turn his entire life upside-down? Yes, Mycroft was skilled at obfuscation but his brother was almost equally good at detection, and Sherlock finally seemed content after a very rocky period of adjustment in the aftermath of returning 'from the dead.
And though he didn't suspect that Sherlock's relationship with John Watson was anything more than platonic, it was obvious that the man was very good for his brother—and it had taken a tense period of time for them to finally reach their former levels of trust and ease with one another, as well. Did Mycroft now dare to jeopardise his brother's happiness after so much adversity? Alone in his office, he allowed himself the indulgence of a deep grimace and sigh at his dilemma.
The situation was a wretched ourobouros of professional, familial, and compulsory obligation, and Ms Adle had undoubtedly enclosed him within its confines with the utmost deliberation and glee. He turned, as was his practice since boyhood when confronted with anything messy or emotional, to the solace of thought and reason. Thought and reason were constant, comprehensible, and uncapricious, and the only valid means by which to organise a mind muddled by things such as sentiment.
Current status: Irene had contacted him to inform him that not only was she alive, but that she had conceived a child with Sherlock. Sherlock himself was only aware of his first role but not his second, and both Irene and Mycroft wished to maintain that status for the time-being. Objective: To locate Irene Adler so as to attempt in-person negotiations, without the unnecessary dramatics of cryptic messages or power plays.
Protection and significant financial support were anticipated concessions and would be granted without dispute for the sake of the child, but he needed to know if her agenda contained any additional elements, and be prepared to negotiate unforeseen terms. Benefit: It was probable that his brother, Sherlock Holmes, knew where Ms Adler was settled and what alias was used, or at least had some awareness of a possible location. Cost: Consulting with him in any way but the most oblique and strategic manner possible would alert Sherlock's suspicions.
Benefit: Sherlock would attempt to contact her or even perhaps go to her, which could lead Mycroft or at least his agents to her. Cost: Sherlock could more probable: would discover the existence of his son in the process of finding Ms Adler. In retaliation for his noncompliance with her request, she could then inform his colleagues in The United States and Germany that she was alive, and moreover, and that the younger Holmes brother had carried out the entire mission from the initial rescue to her patriation in [wherever she was] under falsified documents.
Additionally, it would wreak havoc on Sherlock's life, which was a potent disincentive as well. Final Assessment of risk: His American and German counterparts would believe—and understandably so—that he had been involved in Ms Adler's exfiltration, and that he had wilfully conspired to deceive them. All trust, so essential in his delicate position, would be lost, and he would be cast off in disgrace. He blanched at the thought, and actually felt physically ill.
He had seen how badly Sherlock coped with boredom, and fortunately for himself he'd never suffered that plight due to the ongoing and rigorous demands of his occupation. But if he were deprived of that position, if had nothing to constantly fuel the roaring freight train of his mind, he suspected his reactions would be far worse than a few bullet holes in a wall. Suicide would likely not be out of the realm of possibility, he understood with cold but lucid dread.
There were worse things than being temporarily bested by the woman who had nearly brought England to its knees, he realised. With that sobering perspective, he accepted the findings of his assessment and managed to suppress the urge to reach out to his brother. And so it wasn't the keen disappointment of a false lead or the indignity of being relegated to a passive role that finally broke Mycroft's resolve.
There was never such thing as a lull in his professional life—the very nature of his work meant that there was a ceaseless demand for his attention: the near discovery of corruption in a distant election he was helping to fix, the disappearance of a governor's child in a politically unstable country which could incite a civil war, or even the acrimonious romantic break-up of a team of talented British scientists who had been at the forefront of zero-point energy technology research, which threatened the entire project a further blow against 'caring,' as if he'd needed any additional evidence These were all within his purview, and just a sampling of matters that had arisen in the past week alone.
However, as demanding as his usual duties could be, they had in no way detracted focus from The Adler Conundrum, as he had taken to calling it. Far from it, since after he had received the package he'd been able to adjust his schedule and go to Asia to investigate the circumstances of Ms Adler's survival.
He had become so deft and masterful at his role that he could literally resolve a labour strike or minor economic collapse over breakfast, and under normal circumstances there would've been no problem in adding one more layer of ongoing complexity to his workload. And yet unfortunately, current developments were far exceeding the status quo's level of demand The minor headaches that had cropped up in the past week were trivia compared with one issue that had been steadily escalating over the past year, and had rapidly come to a head in the past month: The upcoming changes to the United Kingdom's status in the European Union.
Although he wasn't as outwardly arrogant as Sherlock, neither did he bother with false modesty. He was the most brilliant man in Britain, and certainly one of the greatest strategists in the world. And yet very occasionally a paradigm would shift despite his best efforts, and the growing sentiment in Britain that it should renegotiate its role in the European Union was a force Mycroft found he could neither moderate nor ignore.
In an effort to avoid a crisis, he held meetings on a daily basis that often stretched from pre-dawn to midnight and beyond, whether with the Prime Minister, ranking members of the QC, the head of the Bank of England, the president and director-general of CBI, or his counterparts in the founding member states of the EU. Even the Americans were hammering at his door: they were vigorously opposed to any change because the UK currently represented their interests in the EU due to the two countries' 'special relationship,' and a change in status threatened that.
The matter so monopolised his work—and therefore his life—that for the first time since his early twenties, he had been forced to delegate all other tasks aside from those deemed most critical. Having to manage such high-stakes personal and professional issues simultaneously left him feeling stretched and overwhelmed in a manner which was unprecedented, and during one rare moment not spent considering charters, historical treaties, the single currency, or veto powers, it occurred to him that her timing must have been deliberate.
After all, someone as clever and politically attuned as she had been would be aware that tensions regarding the UK's role within the EU had been escalating for years, and were coming to a critical point around this time. She'd also know full well that he would be integrally involved in the matter, and therefore he would be preoccupied and unable to respond to her in his usual decisive and ruthless manner. Then one night after a particularly tense standoff between himself and his colleagues from The Netherlands and Germany, it occurred to him that in fact Ms Adler's cunning went even further.
During the meeting, the German had furiously accused Mycroft of blackmail when Mycroft had reminded him that Britain could veto changes to the single currency treaty if it were unable to get the reforms it sought, and as Mycroft lay in the single bed in his office's anteroom, he considered the concepts of blackmail, leverage, and power dynamics.
This in turn led him to comprehend the full extent to which Ms Adler had outmanoeuvred him. Obviously she could count on him not to react to her gauntlet as rigorously as he would under normal circumstances. But she was also shrewd enough to realise that because Mycroft was already coping with one very serious and potentially volatile situation, he would be rather inclined to meet her demands so as to avoid the additional risk and uncertainty of another one.
But even more critically, she would know that now more than ever he was vulnerable to scandal, and would go to any measure to avoid even the faintest whiff of one. Obviously he was already invested in avoiding scandal due to self-preservation, but in the current situation the stakes were exponentially higher. In every way that mattered, he was the lynchpin in the negotiations between all the various stakeholders, and if he were to fall into disgrace the very delicate process would collapse, resulting in devastating consequences for Britain, its 'special relationship' with the United States, and the world economy.
One week later, following a day and night spent in ferocious debate with leaders from Brussels, The Hague, Berlin, and Washington, Mycroft sat alone in his office during another rare moment of solitude. In one hand he held a tumbler of year-old single-malt Talisker whiskey and with the other he searched through his desk for some very deserved, full -tar cigarettes.
While rooting about in his top drawer, the back of his hand brushed against the edge of a file, and the corner lifted slightly to reveal a glossy photograph below. Frowning, he pulled out the picture and gazed at the red herring that had been the American dominatrix. He stared at it for several long moments, and in his mind it began to symbolise all his powerlessness and passivity in his handling of the Adler woman and her unknown agenda.
It was only an image, but under the dominatrix's challenging gaze he felt the implied dynamics keenly—as well as a measure of self-loathing. After all, after this false lead he had essentially accepted a passive role and allowed her continue setting the pace and terms. And perhaps because he was sleep-deprived, slightly intoxicated, and regrettably emotionally invested and therefore irrational, he realised that the very factors that had prevented him from seeking out Irene Adler were in fact the precise reasons why he should locate and speak with her as soon as possible.
He straightened, and shoved the photograph haphazardly back in the drawer, his mind becoming clearer at the prospect of developments. He closed his eyes lightly, and despite his exhaustion and slight inebriation, the concepts and words flowed into place with satisfying clicks.
Cost : He was dealing with great volatility and uncertainty in respect to the UK's future role in the EU. Benefit : As such, he felt is was essential to seize control where he could, to the degree he could, specifically in terms of his management of the Adler Conundrum.
Cost : The stakes of his current project were so high that he could not risk unexpected scandal. Benefit : If he located her it was possible that he could convince her to make her terms more transparent, so that he could devise a strategy accordingly.
He would accommodate her as much as he possibly could and perhaps even then some , just to get this over with and not have her sword at the back of his neck at all times. He noted the unpleasant irony of that metaphor, but continued his assessment. Cost : She could threaten him with exposure. Benefit : He, in turn, would point out that this would result in her protection and financial support vanishing.
After all, if forced to give up his role he would hardly be in a position to grant her such favours. As long as she wasn't like the scorpion in the fable about the scorpion and the frog, she would act in the way that most benefitted her and the child.
He stomach dropped at the last word, as it did every time he remembered that this was all due to the fact that Sherlock had fathered a son with Irene Adler. He tended to lose sight of that critical fact between the demands of his work and the extremely trying dynamic he had with the infant's mother, and the reminder only made him more resolute.
The time had come to take greater control of the situation and utilise the one, best resource he had. More energised than he had felt in weeks, he downed the last dram of the spirit and pulled on his jacket in one swift movement, then fished his phone from his pocket and sent off a text to his aide as he strode from his office. Despite the lateness of the hour, her response pinged on his phone almost immediately, just as he had expected that it would. When Mycroft entered Flat B he was marginally more sober and composed, but still committed to his course.
He had checked and rechecked his findings in the car, and was confident that they justified this action, risky though it was. He found Sherlock sprawled out in his imitation Le Corbusier chair by the fireplace, a thick folio of what looked like old tube and sewer plans open across his lap, and a cold mug of tea by his foot. He ignored Sherlock's dig, and lifted his chin. I'd check the main larder, it's—".
His brother could be so infuriating, so quickly. I'm afraid we must," he said, his tone sharper. He paused for a moment then, watching his brother very carefully, stated: "Irene Adler is alive. Apparently he hadn't yet sensed danger in Mycroft's tone. Your point? Mycroft shook his head, his eyes narrowing. His brother's studied nonchalance told him everything he needed to know about how this was going to go—not that he had at all expected for it to be easy. His brother sighed down at the underground grids across his lap, making an act of sounding annoyed at Mycroft's continuation of the topic, but Mycroft knew that if Sherlock genuinely had no stakes in the matter he'd have asked about her actual fate out of simple curiosity.
And he should have known that; this was sloppy and suggested to Mycroft that Sherlock had still not ridden himself of his contemptible weakness for the woman.
Sherlock looked over at Mycroft as if he were a disgusting lab specimen, except that Mycroft knew for a fact that even putrefying flesh was accorded with more respect by his brother. After a moment Sherlock looked away, concluding, "You're being tiresome, you can see yourself out now. Sherlock paused for a fraction of a second; too infinitesimal for most people to even notice, but to Mycroft it betrayed that Sherlock was starting to realise the seriousness of the matter, and was firming up his defenses.
When he looked up his brother was staring at him again, but if Sherlock's face had betrayed any chagrin at Mycroft's statement, Mycroft had missed it. It was now shrewd and assessing once more. He wasn't denying it or playing ignorant, which was a promising start, Mycroft supposed, but he was also far too self-assured and confident for Mycroft's liking.
Since Mycroft knew the answer, it was mostly a device to give him the edge. It seemed to work. Sherlock blinked in surprise at such a frank question, but soon his eyes narrowed dangerously and a faint flush came into his cheeks. Mycroft thought he could detect outrage, indignation, and something akin to embarrassment, and though he felt distaste for it, he was fascinated as well.
It was an expression he had never before seen on Sherlock's face. Outrage, yes, indignation, frequently , but never this brand of embarrassment, and it was quite a turn from the arrogance he had displayed only moments before.
Still, he chose his next words prudently, careful not to reveal too much. Fun for you, I bet. You always did want to be a pirate He looked up from twirling his umbrella handle between his fingers to see that the folio had dropped back onto his brother's lap, and that he had gone very rigid; his eyes burned into Mycroft's and his face was as set and hard as carved alabaster. Mycroft started to turn as if he were going to leave, then paused and added with a pained expression, "I ask you though, Sherlock.
He meant his words, but they were also calculated. Whether arrogant or outraged, Sherlock was obviously still invested in what had happened in Karachi almost two years before, beyond simply wanting to ensure that his achievement was not compromised.
Mycroft's impression had been accurate: incomprehensible as it was, his brother was still experiencing lingering sentiment for Ms Adler. And though it probably increased Sherlock's desire to protect her and her new identity, it also made him significantly more vulnerable If Mycroft spoke disparagingly of her as he just had, it would catch Sherlock where he was most susceptible, which might cause him react irrationally, lash out, and give away more than he might otherwise.
In Mycroft's work he frequently encountered men and women covering for significant others during questioning, and the particular strategy of vilifying that loved one often yielded results.
People would rush to heatedly correct him, and wind up revealing too much. Still, a part of Mycroft utterly hated this, hated manipulating his brother's sole weakness for his own gain and approaching him like all those other ordinary men and women.
And all the while he knew the full truth and weight of the situation, whilst keeping his brother - the infant's own father - in the dark. He knew that it was ultimately for the best, at least for now, but it still made him feel rather wretched and it certainly intensified his resentment towards Ms Adler.
Ah, so he was still going to disavow it all, rather than rush to her defense, Mycroft thought. Though it didn't help Mycroft's cause, he was still somewhat relieved that Sherlock wasn't so readily falling for the trap. He was still reassuringly less malleable than all those other people, weakened by sentiment though he was.
He needed to antagonise his brother just enough, yes something he wasn't finding difficult at the moment , but he also wanted to avoid drawing any attention to the identity of his informant. He loathed to consider how much the already unstable situation would escalate should Sherlock discover that Irene Adler had been the one to reveal everything to Mycroft.
And so he diverted attention onto himself, remarking, "It's obvious; I can see your infatuation and your consequent acts with Irene Adler written all over you. Every time I speak her name you indicate at least four various physiological responses. Sherlock scowled, the only movement in his otherwise unyielding expression and posture. Then to Mycroft's surprise his eyes lowered, and he added in an uncharacteristically subdued but emphatic tone, "It's over and done with, so what does it matter?
The words themselves were telling enough—it was Sherlock's first actual admission of any involvement. However, while he could have been referring only to the operation itself, his tone made it clear he was speaking of something much more personal, and Mycroft wanted to devote time to explore that separately.
I confess myself disappointed that I didn't notice it before. Sherlock remained stock-still, his mouth set into a firm line. The light coming in at an angle from the windows cut a hard slant against his face so that his cheekbones stood out even more prominently, and Mycroft knew that Sherlock might present a rather intimidating figure to others, but all he saw was his little brother in a pouty strop—the kind that had him chucking bits of his dinner at Mycroft when they were children.
There were much more critical concerns at hand than his fractured pride and overly-prolonged sentiment. Mycroft raised one eyebrow, but then continued. But even after all your meticulous scheming and secrecy, your body language would have given you away in an instant. That would've been ironically fitting in this particular instance though, wouldn't it have? Presumably the one time you decided to indulge in the physical, and it would've ended up betraying all your finest brainwork.
But no, luckily for you I was trying to spare you the knowledge of her death, trying to be a good brother. As always. Mycroft fixed his brother with a probing stare, still ignoring his orders to leave. He was far from done. Based on Ms Adler's note he had judged as much, but Sherlock's reaction to Mycroft's intentional provocation confirmed it. And now Sherlock was staring directly ahead, but Mycroft could see some sort of foreign emotion burning in his eyes.
His brother only responded by tightening his lips further, but his unhappy, resentful look was sufficient for Mycroft. It appeared that he did not. Mycroft swallowed down his frustration—moments before he had thought they might finally be getting close to some sort of revealing tantrum, but if Sherlock's genuinely didn't know anything relevant, it didn't matter how proficient Mycroft's interrogation skills were. He had agonised for weeks over whether to take this risk, and now Sherlock appeared to know even less than Mycroft.
It was entirely possible that although Ms Adler had accepted Sherlock's help and slept with him over a year and a half ago, she no longer returned any sentiment, and was 'done with Junior' once more.
But that would be a foolish thread to pull; if he wanted Sherlock to be any use at all, he needed to prevent him from feeling any self-pity or bitterness, which were both paralytics. What was it? He watched his brother expectantly, but Sherlock maintained a stony, insolent silence, his eyes boring holes into the wall behind Mycroft's shoulder. Sherlock leaned forward, letting the folio slide off his lap and thud onto the floor.
But he knew that Sherlock rarely swore even this mildly; Mycroft was obviously hitting a nerve, and it was more than simply a reaction to Mycroft trying to get something out of him that he didn't want to share. Sherlock was growing more anxious for Ms Adler's future safety and security, and if Mycroft played the situation exactly right, he might be able to compel Sherlock to search for her himself. In terms of risk he was in for a penny, in for a pound at this point, and tracking Sherlock to her location seemed the last viable solution, unless he wanted to revert to total passivity, which he no longer considered an option.
Sherlock gritted his teeth, and finally deigned to make eye contact with his brother again, although it was hard and begrudging. Which is convenient for you, since none is being - or will be - offered. So off you go, have at it. You can't fool Big Brother forever," Mycroft said in a silky but dangerous tone, and he knew Sherlock understood the double, and equally true, meanings.
Still he didn't make a move towards the door, and the brothers settled into a tense standoff. Under Mycroft's relentless scrutiny, Sherlock began to struggle even more to maintain his composure: his fingers dug into the soft leather of the chair's arms, his face began to flush, and his mouth set into an even tighter line of resentment.
As much as it pained him to see his brother so affected, it also meant his victory. There was no doubt in his mind: Sherlock would be on a flight or train before dawn. Just as he decided to take his leave, his loathsome work done, he heard John, Sherlock's erstwhile flatmate, enter the drawing room, and Sherlock reacted with obvious relief, straightening slightly out of his aggressive lean forward. Perhaps he thought Mycroft wouldn't be willing to discuss the Irene Adler matter in front of John, and therefore he was off the hook.
Little did he realise that he had only just placed himself on that hook. Say goodbye, John. John assessed the pair of them with his characteristic blend of bemusement and curiosity, but said nothing. For a fraction of a second Mycroft was tempted to spin towards John, announce something along the lines of, "I'm sorry to inform you that apparently Sherlock saved Irene Adler's life, and all evidence indicates that he fell in love with her in the process.
He then lied to both of us by omission about his involvement. What do you think of that? But no, that was a childish impulse, and he wanted Sherlock to spend his energy on seeking out Irene Adler, not fencing questions from his angry friend about his deception. Besides, it was obvious that making Sherlock confront the reality of his ongoing sentiment for Ms Adler was punishment enough for someone like his brother.
Though Mycroft knew, and knew Sherlock knew, that John was using this as an excuse to keep an eye on them, neither brother acknowledged him; they were still locked in a battle of wills. The story is especially effective at inspiring fear in the reader because of its heavy focus on the senses, such as sound, emphasizing its reality, unlike many of Poe's stories which are aided by the supernatural.
In order to save her father's life, Belle has no choice but to go the Beast's palace and live with him. But will she learn there's more to this monster than first meets the eye? That charming 18th-century tale of the transforming power of love has enchanted generations of readers and listeners down to the present day.
Scott Fitzgerald's readers had come to expect by the end of the Jazz Age. At fifty, Tom is attracted as much to Annie Lorry's age as to her beauty or social status. She is for him a veritable fountain of youth, revivifying memories of the warm sureties of his own adolescence and reintroducing him to the very terminology of young romance. It was a dark autumn night. The old banker was pacing from corner to corner of his study, recalling to his mind the party he gave in the autumn fifteen years ago.
There were many clever people at the party and much interesting conversation. They talked among other things of capital punishment. The guests, among them not a few scholars and journalists, for the most part disapproved of capital punishment.
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