By Victoria Holt
For hundreds of years the tombs of the Pharaos have been haunted via a dangerous curse. And while eminent archaeologists have died mysteriously, Judith Osmond was once convinced that it used to be the curse at paintings. Then, in a single day, her existence replaced. there has been an unforeseen inheritance. Then Tybalt, a tender archaeologist and the guy she cherished, requested her to marry him. yet Tybalt deliberate a honeymoon amid the tombs of the Pharoahs, and all of sudden it appeared as though the curse of the kings had come to hang-out Judith . . .
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There were several Chinese vases and images which Sir Edward had picked up in China. There were some beautiful pictures on the walls—delicate and in pastel shades; there was a big cabinet in which were Chinese figures—there were dragons and fat Buddhas with sly sleepy looks and thin ones sitting with apparent comfort in a position which I had tried unsuccessfully to copy; there were ladies with inscrutable faces and mandarins with cruel ones. But the grand piano gave the place an air of normality and it was on this that we strummed out our lessons under the tuition of Grey Tabby who was as enigmatical as one of the Chinese ladies in the cabinet.
I knelt down and examined them. “My father is trying to decipher them,” explained Sabina. “That’s why it’s here. ” I touched it wonderingly. “Just imagine … thousands of years ago people made these signs and someone was embalmed and laid inside there. Don’t you think that’s wonderful? ” “You can see them in the British Museum. ” I stood up and looked about the room. The walls of one side were lined with books. I looked at their bindings. Many were in languages I could not understand. I said: “There’s a strange feeling in this room.
We did that every Sunday. Now we had planted a rosemary bush within the marble curb. “That’s for remembrance,” said Dorcas. ” On this hot July afternoon Pegger paused in his digging to mop his forehead with a red bandanna handkerchief and regarded me in the stern way he regarded everybody. “You’ve a taste for graveyards, Miss Judith,” he said. “You’m like me, I reckon. As I stand here, turning over the earth, I think of the one who’ll be laid to rest in this deep dark grave. Like as not I’ve known ‘un all me life—for that’s how it be in a parish like St.
Curse of the Kings by Victoria Holt