2021, ISBN: 63708918a32f9bd1afd9acb8e65cf9ab

Hardcover

Penguin Books. Good. 8.2 x 5.1 x 1.2 inches. Paperback. 2006. 414 pages. Cover worn.<br>A #1 New York Times Bestseller! Funny, insightful, illuminating . . . --The Boston Globe T… More...

Penguin Books. Good. 8.2 x 5.1 x 1.2 inches. Paperback. 2006. 414 pages. Cover worn.<br>A #1 New York Times Bestseller! Funny, insightful, illuminating . . . --The Boston Globe Twelve years ago, Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil exploded into a monu mental success, residing a record-breaking four years on the New York Times bestseller list (longer than any work of fiction or no nfiction had before) and turning John Berendt into a household na me. The City of Falling Angels is Berendt's first book since Midn ight, and it immediately reminds one what all the fuss was about. Turning to the magic, mystery, and decadence of Venice, Berendt gradually reveals the truth behind a sensational fire that in 199 6 destroyed the historic Fenice opera house. Encountering a rich cast of characters, Berendt tells a tale full of atmosphere and s urprise as the stories build, one after the other, ultimately com ing together to portray a world as finely drawn as a still-life p ainting. Editorial Reviews Review Funny, insightful, illuminati ng . . . [Venice] reveals itself, slowly, discreetly, under Beren dt's gentle but persistent prying. --The Boston Globe Berendt ha s given us something uniquely different . . . . Thanks to [his] s plendid cityportrait, even those of us far from Venice can marvel . --The Wall Street Journal About the Author John Berendt has be en a columnist for Esquire and the editor of New York magazine, a nd is the author of Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, whic h was a finalist for the 1995 Pulitzer Prize in general nonfictio n. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. An E vening in Venice THE AIR STILL SMELLED OF CHARCOAL when I arriv ed in Venice three days after the fire. As it happened, the timin g of my visit was purely coincidental. I had made plans, months b efore, to come to Venice for a few weeks in the off-season in ord er to enjoy the city without the crush of other tourists. If the re had been a wind Monday night, the water-taxi driver told me as we came across the lagoon from the airport, there wouldn't be a Venice to come to. How did it happen? I asked. The taxi driver shrugged. How do all these things happen? It was early February, in the middle of the peaceful lull that settles over Venice ever y year between New Year's Day and Carnival. The tourists had gone , and in their absence the Venice they inhabited had all but clos ed down. Hotel lobbies and souvenir shops stood virtually empty. Gondolas lay tethered to poles and covered in blue tarpaulin. Unb ought copies of the International Herald Tribune remained on news stand racks all day, and pigeons abandoned sparse pickings in St. Mark's Square to scavenge for crumbs in other parts of the city. Meanwhile the other Venice, the one inhabited by Venetians, was as busy as ever-the neighborhood shops, the vegetable stands, th e fish markets, the wine bars. For these few weeks, Venetians cou ld stride through their city without having to squeeze past dense clusters of slow-moving tourists. The city breathed, its pulse q uickened. Venetians had Venice all to themselves. But the atmosp here was subdued. People spoke in hushed, dazed tones of the sort one hears when there has been a sudden death in the family. The subject was on everyone's lips. Within days I had heard about it in such detail I felt as if I had been there myself. IT HAPPENED ON MONDAY EVENING, January 29, 1996. Shortly before nine o'cloc k, Archimede Seguso sat down at the dinner table and unfolded his napkin. Before joining him, his wife went into the living room t o lower the curtains, which was her long-standing evening ritual. Signora Seguso knew very well that no one could see in through t he windows, but it was her way of enfolding her family in a domes tic embrace. The Segusos lived on the third floor of Ca' Capello, a sixteenth-century house in the heart of Venice. A narrow canal wrapped around two sides of the building before flowing into the Grand Canal a short distance away. Signor Seguso waited patient ly at the table. He was eighty-six-tall, thin, his posture still erect. A fringe of wispy white hair and flaring eyebrows gave him the look of a kindly sorcerer, full of wonder and surprise. He h ad an animated face and sparkling eyes that captivated everyone w ho met him. If you happened to be in his presence for any length of time, however, your eye would eventually be drawn to his hands . They were large, muscular hands, the hands of an artisan whose work demanded physical strength. For seventy-five years, Signor Seguso had stood in front of a blazing-hot glassworks furnace-ten , twelve, eighteen hours a day-holding a heavy steel pipe in his hands, turning it to prevent the dollop of molten glass at the ot her end from drooping to one side or the other, pausing to blow i nto it to inflate the glass, then laying it across his workbench, still turning it with his left hand while, with a pair of tongs in his right hand, pulling, pinching, and coaxing the glass into the shape of graceful vases, bowls, and goblets. After all those years of turning the steel pipe hour after hour, Signor Seguso's left hand had molded itself around the pipe until it became perm anently cupped, as if the pipe were always in it. His cupped hand was the proud mark of his craft, and this was why the artist who painted his portrait some years ago had taken particular care to show the curve in his left hand. Men in the Seguso family had b een glassmakers since the fourteenth century. Archimede was the t wenty-first generation and one of the greatest of them all. He co uld sculpt heavy pieces out of solid glass and blow vases so thin and fragile they could barely be touched. He was the first glass maker ever to see his work honored with an exhibition in the Doge 's Palace in St. Mark's Square. Tiffany sold his pieces in its Fi fth Avenue store. Archimede Seguso had been making glass since t he age of eleven, and by the time he was twenty, he had earned th e nickname Mago del Fuoco (Wizard of Fire). He no longer had the stamina to stand in front of a hot and howling furnace eighteen h ours a day, but he worked every day nonetheless, and with undimin ished pleasure. On this particular day, in fact, he had risen at his usual hour of 4:30 A.M., convinced as always that the pieces he was about to make would be more beautiful than any he had ever made before. In the living room, Signora Seguso paused to look out the window before lowering the curtain. She noticed that the air had become hazy, and she mused aloud that a winter fog had se t in. In response, Signor Seguso remarked from the other room tha t it must have come in very quickly, because he had seen the quar ter moon in a clear sky only a few minutes before. The living ro om window looked across a small canal at the back of the Fenice O pera House, thirty feet away. Rising above it in the distance, so me one hundred yards away, the theater's grand entrance wing appe ared to be shrouded in mist. Just as she started to lower the cur tain, Signora Seguso saw a flash. She thought it was lightning. T hen she saw another flash, and this time she knew it was fire. P apa! she cried out. The Fenice is on fire! Signor Seguso came qu ickly to the window. More flames flickered at the front of the th eater, illuminating what Signora Seguso had thought was mist but had in fact been smoke. She rushed to the telephone and dialed 11 5 for the fire brigade. Signor Seguso went into his bedroom and s tood at the corner window, which was even closer to the Fenice th an the living room window. Between the fire and the Segusos' hou se lay a jumble of buildings that constituted the Fenice. The par t on fire was farthest away, the chaste neoclassical entrance win g with its formal reception rooms, known collectively as the Apol lonian rooms. Then came the main body of the theater with its ela borately rococo auditorium, and finally the vast backstage area. Flaring out from both sides of the auditorium and the backstage w ere clusters of smaller, interconnected buildings like the one th at housed the scenery workshop immediately across the narrow cana l from Signor Seguso. Signora Seguso could not get through to th e fire brigade, so she dialed 112 for the police. The enormity o f what was happening outside his window stunned Signor Seguso. Th e Gran Teatro La Fenice was one of the splendors of Venice; it wa s arguably the most beautiful opera house in the world, and one o f the most significant. The Fenice had commissioned dozens of ope ras that had premiered on its stage-Verdi's La Traviata and Rigol etto, Igor Stravinsky's The Rake's Progress, Benjamin Britten's T he Turn of the Screw. For two hundred years, audiences had deligh ted in the sumptuous clarity of the Fenice's acoustics, the magni ficence of its five tiers of gilt-encrusted boxes, and the baroqu e fantasy of it all. Signor and Signora Seguso had always taken a box for the season, and over the years they had been given incre asingly desirable locations until they finally found themselves n ext to the royal box. Signora Seguso had no luck getting through to the police either, and now she was becoming frantic. She call ed upstairs to the apartment where her son Gino lived with his wi fe and their son, Antonio. Gino was still out at the Seguso glass factory in Murano. Antonio was visiting a friend near the Rialto . Signor Seguso stood silently at his bedroom window, watching a s the flames raced across the entire top floor of the entrance wi ng. He knew that, for all its storied loveliness, the Fenice was at this moment an enormous pile of exquisite kindling. Inside a t hick shell of Istrian stone lined with brick, the structure was m ade entirely of wood-wooden beams, wooden floors, wooden walls-ri chly embellished with wood carvings, sculpted stucco, and papier- mâché, all of it covered with layer upon layer of lacquer and gil t. Signor Seguso was aware, too, that the scenery workshop just a cross the canal from his house was stocked with solvents and, mos t worrisome of all, cylinders of propane gas that were used for w elding and soldering. Signora Seguso came back into the room to say she had finally spoken with the police. They already knew ab out the fire, she said. They told me we should leave the house at once. She looked over her husband's shoulder and stifled a screa m; the flames had moved closer in the short time she had been awa y from the window. They were now advancing through the four small er reception halls toward the main body of the theater, in their direction. Archimede Seguso stared into the fire with an apprais ing eye. He opened the window, and a gust of bitter-cold air rush ed in. The wind was blowing to the southwest. The Segusos were du e west of the theater, however, and Signor Seguso calculated that if the wind did not change direction or pick up strength, the fi re would advance toward the other side of the Fenice rather than in their direction. Now, Nandina, he said softly, stay calm. We' re not in any danger. The Segusos' house was only one of many bu ildings close to the Fenice. Except for Campo San Fantin, a small plaza at the front of the theater, the Fenice was hemmed in by o ld and equally flammable buildings, many of them attached to it o r separated from it by only four or five feet. This was not at al l unusual in Venice, where building space had always been at a pr emium. Seen from above, Venice resembled a jigsaw puzzle of terra -cotta rooftops. Passages between some of the buildings were so n arrow one could not walk through them with an open umbrella. It h ad become a specialty of Venetian burglars to escape from the sce ne of a crime by leaping from roof to roof. If the fire in the Fe nice were able to make the same sort of leap, it would almost cer tainly destroy a sizable swath of Venice. The Fenice itself was dark. It had been closed five months for renovations and was due to reopen in a month. The canal along its rear façade was also cl osed-empty-having been sealed off and drained so work crews could dredge the silt and sludge from it and repair its walls for the first time in forty years. The canal between the Segusos' buildin g and the back of the Fenice was now a deep, muddy gulch with a t angle of exposed pipes and a few pieces of heavy machinery sittin g in puddles at the bottom. The empty canal would make it impossi ble for fireboats to reach the Fenice, and, worse than that, it w ould deprive them of a source of water. Venetian firemen depended on water pumped directly from the canals to put out fires. The c ity had no system of fire hydrants. THE FENICE WAS NOW RINGED BY A TUMULT OF SHOUTS and running footsteps. Tenants, routed from t heir houses by the police, crossed paths with patrons coming out of the Ristorante Antico Martini. A dozen bewildered guests rolle d suitcases out of the Hotel La Fenice, asking directions to the Hotel Saturnia, where they had been told to go. Into their midst, a wild-eyed woman wearing only a nightgown came stumbling from h er house into Campo San Fantin screaming hysterically. She threw herself to the ground in front of the theater, flailing her arms and rolling on the pavement. Several waiters came out of the Anti co Martini and led her inside. Two fireboats managed to navigate to a water-filled canal a short distance from the Fenice. Their hoses were not long enough to reach around the intervening buildi ngs, however, so the firemen dragged them through the kitchen win dow at the back of the Antico Martini and out through the dining room into Campo San Fantin. They aimed their nozzles at flames bu rning furiously in a top-floor window of the theater, but the wat er pressure was too low. The arc of water barely reached the wind owsill. The fire went on leaping and taunting and sucking up grea t turbulent currents of air that set the flames snapping like bri lliant red sails in a violent wind. Several policemen struggled with the massive front door of the Fenice, but to no avail. One o f them drew his pistol and fired three shots at the lock. The doo r opened. Two firemen rushed in and disappeared into a dense whit e wall of smoke. Moments later they came running out. It's too la te, said one. It's burning like straw. The wail of sirens now fi lled the air as police and firemen raced up and down the Grand Ca nal in motorboats, spanking up huge butterfly wings of spray as t hey bounced through the wakes of other boats. About an hour after the first alarm, the city's big fire launch pulled up at the lan ding stage behind Haig's Bar. Its high-powered rigs would at last be able to pump water the two hundre, Penguin Books, 2006, 2.5, Picador. Good. 5.12 x 1.54 x 7.76 inches. Paperback. 1990. 880 pages. Text tanned. Spine cracked.<br>25th ANNIVERSARY EDITIO N. One of the most acclaimed books of our time--the definitive Vi etnam War exposé. Winner of the Pulitzer Prize and the National Book Award. When he came to Vietnam in 1962, Lieutenant Colonel John Paul Vann was the one clear-sighted participant in an enterp rise riddled with arrogance and self-deception, a charismatic sol dier who put his life and career on the line in an attempt to con vince his superiors that the war should be fought another way. By the time he died in 1972, Vann had embraced the follies he once decried. He died believing that the war had been won. In this ma gisterial book, a monument of history and biography that was awar ded the National Book Award and the Pulitzer Prize for Nonfiction , a renowned journalist tells the story of John Vann--the one irr eplaceable American in Vietnam--and of the tragedy that destroyed a country and squandered so much of America's young manhood and resources. Editorial Reviews Amazon com Review This passionate, epic account of the Vietnam War centers on Lt. Col. John Paul Va nn, whose story illuminates America's failures and disillusionmen t in Southeast Asia. Vann was a field adviser to the army when Am erican involvement was just beginning. He quickly became appalled at the corruption of the South Vietnamese regime, their incompet ence in fighting the Communists, and their brutal alienation of t heir own people. Finding his superiors too blinded by political l ies to understand that the war was being thrown away, he secretly briefed reporters on what was really happening. One of those rep orters was Neil Sheehan. This definitive expose on why America lo st the war won the Pulitzer Prize for nonfiction in 1989. --This text refers to the hardcover edition. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by pe rmission. All rights reserved. from The Funeral It was a funeral to which they all came. They gathered in the red brick chapel be side the cemetery gate. Six gray horses were hitched to a caisson that would carry the coffin to the grave. A marching band was re ady. An honor guard from the Army's oldest regiment, the regiment whose rolls reached back to the Revolution, was also formed in r anks before the white Georgian portico of the chapel. The soldier s were in full dress, dark blue trimmed with gold, the colors of the Union Army, which had safeguarded the integrity of the nation . The uniform was unsuited to the warmth and humidity of this Fri day morning in the early summer of Washington, but this state fun eral was worthy of the discomfort. John Paul Vann, the soldier of the war in Vietnam, was being buried at Arlington on June 16, 19 72. The war had already lasted longer than any other in the nati on's history and had divided America more than any conflict since the Civil War. In this war without heroes, this man had been the one compelling figure. The intensity and distinctiveness of his character and the courage and drama of his life had seemed to sum up so many of the qualities Americans admired in themselves as a people. By an obsession, by an unyielding dedication to the war, he had come to personify the American endeavor in Vietnam. He ha d exemplified it in his illusions, in his good intentions gone aw ry, in his pride, in his will to win. Where others had been defea ted or discouraged over the years, or had become disenchanted and had turned against the war, he had been undeterred in his crusad e to find a way to redeem the unredeemable, to lay hold of victor y in this doomed enterprise. At the end of a decade of struggle t o prevail, he had been killed one night a week earlier when his h elicopter had Kontum, an offensive by the North Vietnamese Army w hich had threatened to bring the Vietnam venture down in defeat. Those who had assembled to see John Vann to his grave reflected the divisions and the wounds that the war had inflicted on Americ an society. At the same time they had, almost every one, been tou ched by this man. Some had come because they had admired him and shared his cause even now; some because they had parted with him along the way, but still thought of him as a friend; some because they had been harmed by him, but cherished him for what he might have been. Although the war was to continue for nearly another t hree years with no dearth of dying in Vietnam, many at Arlington on that June morning in 1972 sensed that they were burying with J ohn Vann the war and the decade of Vietnam. With Vann dead, the r est could be no more than a postscript. He had gone to Vietnam a t the beginning of the decade, in March 1962, at the age of thirt y-seven, as an Army lieutenant colonel, volunteering to serve as senior advisor to a South Vietnamese infantry division in the Mek ong Delta south of Saigon. The war was still an adventure then. T he previous December, President John F. Kennedy had committed the arms of the United States to the task of suppressing a Communist -led rebellion and preserving South Vietnam as a separate state g overned by an American-sponsored regime in Saigon. --This text re fers to the hardcover edition. From Library Journal Vann was a f igure of legends, first as a military advisor and later as a civi lian official, renowned for his bravery and special insight into and openness about the developing failure in Vietnam. He appeared to sacrifice his military career in 1963, demonstrating uncommon integrity, and died in 1972 after leading the successful defense of Kontum. Sheehan, the New York Times reporter who obtained the Pentagon Papers from Daniel Ellsberg, reveals a flawed herocapab le of deceit in furthering his reputation and his cause and of in satiable sexual exploits that had already ended hopes of promotio nbut still a remarkable man. More importantly, Vann serves as the anchor of a detailed, well-researched, very respectable, and rea dable attempt to explain the Vietnam experience. Excerpted in The New Yorker. Highly recommended. BMOC main selection.Kenneth W. B erger, Duke Univ. Lib., Durham, N.C. Copyright 1988 Reed Business Information, Inc. --This text refers to the hardcover edition. From the Publisher If there is one book that captures the Vietnam war in the sheer Homeric scale of its passion and folly, this is it.--The New York Times Book Review --This text refers to the ha rdcover edition. Review Masterly. . . . One of the few brillian t histories of the American entanglement in Vietnam. --The New Yo rk Times A brilliant work of enormous substance and ambition. In telling one man's story [A Bright Shining Lie] sets out to defin e the fatal contradictions that lost America the war in Vietnam. It belongs to the same order of merit as Dispatches, The Best and the Brightest, and Fire in the Lake. --Robert Stone, Washington Post Book World A compelling, graphic, and deeply sensitive biog raphy [and] one of the few brilliant histories of the American en thanglement in Vietnam. . . . Sheehan's skillful weaving of anecd ote and history, of personal memoir and psychological profile, gi ve the book the sense of having been written by a novelist, journ alist, and scholar all rolled up into one. --David Shipler, The N ew York Times If there is one book that catpures the Vietnam War in the sheer Homeric scale of its passion and folly, this book i s it. Neil Sheehan orchestrates a great fugue evoking all the ele ments of the war. --Ronald Steel, The New York Times Book Review An unforgettable narrative, a chronicle grand enough to suit the crash and clangors of whole armies. A Bright Shining Lie is a ve ry great piece of work; its rewards are aesthetic and . . . almos t spiritual. --The New York Review of Books Enormous power . . . full of great accomplishments . . . Neil Sheehan has written not only the best book ever about Vietnam, but the timeliest. --News week It is difficult to believe that anyone will write a more gr ipping or important book on America's war in Vietnam than A Brigh t Shining Lie, a towering book that has been 16 years in the maki ng. . . . Sheehan shows, perhaps more convincingly than anyone el se who has written on the subject, that our intervention in Vietn am was in fact a terrible blunder, damaging to America and devast ating to the Vietnamese and the other people of Indochina--a mist ake as tragic as it was unnecessary. --Detroit News [A Bright Sh ining Lie] is more than a biography. It is also a compelling and clear hstiroy of U.S. involvement in Vietnam. Mr. Sheehan's book . . . is the best answer to any American who asks: 'How could thi s have happened?' --Wall Street Journal Using the life of one ma n as his framework, Neil Sheehan has written the best book on Ame rica's involvement in Vietnam since Frances FitzGerald's Fire in the Lake. --Kirkus Reviews One of the milestones in the literatu re about the war. . . . In these times, a readable book about the Vietnam war, like any other clear warning, is worth its weight i n life. --Christian Science Monitor --This text refers to the har dcover edition. About the Author Neil Sheehan is the author of A Fiery Peace in a Cold War. He spent three years in Vietnam as a war correspondent for United Press International and The New York Times and won numerous awards for his reporting. In 1971 he obta ined the Pentagon Papers, which brought the Times the Pulitzer Pr ize Gold Medal for meritorious public service. Sheehan lives in W ashington, D.C. He is married to the writer Susan Sheehan. From the Hardcover edition. --This text refers to the hardcover editio n. From Publishers Weekly Killed in a helicopter crash in Vietna m in 1972, controversial Lt. Col. John Paul Vann was perhaps the most outspoken army field adviser to criticize the way the war wa s being waged. Appalled by the South Vietnamese troops' unwilling ness to fight and their random slaughter of civilians, he flouted his supervisors and leaked his sharply pessimistic (and, as it t urned out, accurate) assessments to the U.S. press corps in Saigo n. Among them was Sheehan, a reporter for UPI and later the New Y ork Times (for whom he obtained the Pentagon Papers). Sixteen yea rs in the making, writing and re search, this compelling 768-page biography is an extraordinary feat of reportage: an eloquent, di sturbing portrait of a man who in many ways personified the U.S. war effort. Blunt, idealistic, patronizing to the Vietnamese, Van n firmly believed the U.S. could win; as Sheehan limns him, he wa s ultimately caught up in his own illusions. The author weaves in to one unified chronicle an account of the Korean War (in which V ann also fought), the story of U.S. support for French colonialis m, descriptions of military battles, a critique of our foreign po licy and a history of this all-American boy's secret personal lie he was illegitimate, his mother a white trash prostitutethat led him to recklessly gamble away his career. 100,000 first printing; first serial to the New Yorker; BOMC main selection ; a uthor to ur. Copyright 1988 Reed Business Information, Inc. --This text r efers to the hardcover edition. From the Inside Flap Sheehan's t ragic biography of John Paul Vann is also a sweeping history of A merica's seduction, entrapment and disillusionment in Vietnam. -- This text refers to the hardcover edition. ., Picador, 1990, 2.5, St. Martin's Press, New York, 1988. Hardcover. Used - Very Good. NY: St. Martin's Press, 1988. First US edition. 172 pages. 9.5 x 6", hardcover, dj. ISBN 0312015267. VG/VG., St. Martin's Press, New York, 1988, 3, Hassell Street Press, 9/10/2021 12:00:00 AM. Used - Very Good. A copy that may have been read, very minimal wear and tear. May have a remainder mark., Hassell Street Press, 9/10/2021 12:00:00 AM, 3, New York: George H. Doran Company. Very Good with no dust jacket. 1922. Hardcover. Covers have slight wear to the outer corners and very slight wear to the spine ends. Dedication page and preface page are missing their lower outer corners. Endpapers are very slightly foxed. Much more recent owner's name and year on front free endpaper. ; Nine pasted in author portraits. Presentation book plate of Grant's Book Shop on the front endpaper "This is Number 131 of a special edition of four hundred copies". ., George H. Doran Company, 1922, 3<

1948, ISBN: 63708918a32f9bd1afd9acb8e65cf9ab

London: The Aiglon Press, 1948. First Edition . Cloth. Good/Fair. Larger, sturdy book, quality red cloth, black lettering very fine on spine, detailed antique illustration of city insid… More...

London: The Aiglon Press, 1948. First Edition . Cloth. Good/Fair. Larger, sturdy book, quality red cloth, black lettering very fine on spine, detailed antique illustration of city inside front cover and adjacent end paper, closer view of streets inside back cover and adjacent end paper, 223 very slightly browned pages. Frontispiece portrait of Cola di Rienzo from second edition of Vita, 1631. Slight foxing to end papers. DJ glossy red with gray and black illustration of Rienzo, spine faded to pink, white back lightly soiled. DJ is worn and torn. Poor DJ/Good book., The Aiglon Press, 1948, 2.25, New York: George H. Doran Company, 1922. Tan boards, tan cloth spine, brown-stamped spine. Good/Dust Jacket condition poor. . Note from previous owner regarding missing illustration, other portraits extant. Some pencil underlining. Cover illustration applied. Dust jacket scraps tucked inside. 384 pages, index. Bookplate., George H. Doran Company, 1922, 1.75<

1922, ISBN: 63708918a32f9bd1afd9acb8e65cf9ab

Gebraucht, sehr guter Zustand, [SC: 40.85], [PU: Doran, New York], NOISBN, Later. Very good minus Clean text, hinge crack, clean clothardcover overs with plateon front, some wear on edges… More...

Gebraucht, sehr guter Zustand, [SC: 40.85], [PU: Doran, New York], NOISBN, Later. Very good minus Clean text, hinge crack, clean clothardcover overs with plateon front, some wear on edges and corners of covers and spine, slight stain near edge of tilte page. Please Note: This book has been transferred to Between the Covers from another database and might not be described to our usual standards. Please inquire for more detailed condition information.<

1922, ISBN: 63708918a32f9bd1afd9acb8e65cf9ab

Gebraucht, guter Zustand, [PU: George H Doran Co, NY], Cover has a Picture of a house & snowing), Books