By Agatha Christie
First, there have been ten - a curious collection of strangers summoned as weekend visitors to a personal island off the coast of Devon. Their host, an eccentric millionaire unknown to them all, is nowhere to be stumbled on. All that the site visitors have in universal is a depraved prior they're unwilling to bare - and a mystery that may seal their destiny. for every hsa been marked for homicide. one after the other they fall prey. earlier than the weekend is out, there'll be none. And merely the useless are above suspicion
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Additional info for And Then There Were None
I went to the living-room window, one of my favorite views: the street, lapped and laced with branches that have shaded it for decades, since long before I moved in, the old stoops of the brownstones on the other side, the ornate railings and balconies, blocks built in the 1880s. The evening was golden after days of rain; the pear trees had finished their bloom and were a rich green now. I gave up my idea of a movie. It was a perfect night to stay home in peace. I was working on a portrait from a photograph of my father, to send for his birthday—I could make some progress on that.
The swan’s long wing feathers curved inward like talons, its gray-webbed feet almost touched the delicate skin of her belly, and its black-circled eye was as fierce as the gaze of a stallion. The sheer force of its flight toward her, caught on canvas, was astonishing, and this explained visually and psychologically the panic of the woman in the grass. The swan’s tail curled under it, a pelvic thrust, as if to further aid its impulsive slowing. You could feel that the bird had burst over those vague thickets only a moment before, that it had come upon the sleeping form suddenly, and just as suddenly had veered to land on it in a paroxysm of desire.
Had it been gallantry of a twisted, delusional sort? He might simply have disliked the eroticism of the work. But was it an erotic painting, exactly? The longer I stood in front of it, the more it seemed to me to be a painting about power and violence. Staring at Leda, I didn’t want so much to touch or defile her as to push away the huge feathered chest of the swan before it flew into her again. Was that what Robert Oliver had felt, pulling the knife out of his pocket? Or had he simply wanted to liberate her from the frame?