Thomas Kinkade Sweetheart Cottage IIThomas Kinkade Sunrise ChapelThomas Kinkade Streams of Living Water
FOLK DANCING? said Death, wearily.
‘No. We have some pride, you know.’
‘. His voice faltered a bit as he tried to analyse the situation.
‘You’re looking very . . . sparkly . . . tonight, Miss Flitworth,’ he finished, gallantly.
The air smelled of warm, damp grass. An amateur orchestra was still setting up under an awning.
There were trestle tables covered with the kind of food that’s normally associated with the word “repast” - pork pies like varnished military fortifications, vats of demonical pickled onions, jacket potatoes wallowing in a cholesterol ocean of melted butter. Some of the local elders had already established themselves on the benches provided, and were chewing stoically if toothlessly through the food withHey, it’s Bill Door, isn’t it?’ said a figure looming out of the dusk.‘It’s good old Bill!’‘Hey, Bill!’Death looked at a circle of guileless faces.HALLO. MY FRIENDS.‘We heard you’d gone away,’ said Duke Bottomley. He glanced at Miss Flitworth, as Death helped her down from the horse