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The Inner Shrine (1909)

by Basil King

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1811,202,905 (3)5
Though she had counted the strokes of every hour since midnight, Mrs. Eveleth had no thought of going to bed. When she was not sitting bolt upright, indifferent to comfort, in one of the stiff-backed, gilded chairs, she was limping, with the aid of her cane, up and down the long suite of salons, listening for the sound of wheels.… (more)
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http://nwhyte.livejournal.com/1255614.html

This was the best selling book in the USA in 1909, a century ago. I downloaded it from Project Gutenberg after reading John Scalzi's piece about the bestsellers of yesteryear, and how they are forgotten. (Does anyone want to join me in reading Florence Barclay's The Rosary next year, a century after it topped the charts?)

The Inner Shrine is probably a decent enough novel in the romance genre, and people who like that sort of thing today will probably enjoy this as well. After an opening couple of chapters in France, where the older heroine's first husband dies in murky circumstances, we then shift to New York, where the challenge becomes to unite three pairs of lovers sundered by circumstance and social codes (all are, or have been, very rich). You probably aren't going to read this, so I shall reveal that the 'Inner Shrine' of the title is a woman's heart, which can be unlocked by the three words 'I love you.' That is probably the crucial data point that will help you decide if you want to read this book or not. ( )
  nwhyte | Jun 27, 2009 |
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Though she had counted the strokes of every hour since midnight, Mrs.Eveleth had no thought of going to bed. When she was not sitting bolt upright, indifferent to comfort, in one of the stiff-backed, gilded chairs, she was limping with the aid of her cane, up and down the long suite of salons, listening for the sound of wheels.
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originally published anonymously.
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Though she had counted the strokes of every hour since midnight, Mrs. Eveleth had no thought of going to bed. When she was not sitting bolt upright, indifferent to comfort, in one of the stiff-backed, gilded chairs, she was limping, with the aid of her cane, up and down the long suite of salons, listening for the sound of wheels.

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