A Whisper on the Wind [antikvár]

Chapter One When i look back on it, i think of it as beginning in Paris, but actually Paris was just the bearing of the fruit. The roots run much deeper, their origin obscured by time and distance. But for practical purposes, the story began in Paris, on a bench by the Seine River. Overhead and along the quai, stately chestnuts were in bloom, their white cones nestling among the green, like candles on a Christmas tree, so beautiful. Sunbeams sifted through the leaves, dappling the Seine with dancing circles of light. Two mud-colored ducklings bobbed so close to shore I was tempted to reach down and gather their soft fluff into my hands. Paris's sun was warmer than Lx)ndon's, its breezes more romantic, its people more interesting. And I knew that when I lifted my