Thomas Kinkade Hometown Christmas painting

Thomas Kinkade Hometown Christmas paintingThomas Kinkade Golden Gate Bridge San Francisco paintingThomas Kinkade Evening on the Avenue painting
from her hairline to the tip of her nose, swung about and headed in an unbroken line inwards to her neck. He saw in the yellow light that her skin was growing darker by the minute, and her teeth more prominent, and her body as long as a child's stick-figure drawing. At the same time she was casting him glances of an ever more explicit lechery, and grasping his hand in fingers so bony and inescapable that it was as though a skeleton had seized him and was trying to drag him down into a grave; he could smell the freshly dug earth, the cloying scent of it, on her breath, on her lips . . . revulsion seized him. How could he ever have thought her even desired her, even gone so far as to fantasize, while she straddled him and pummelled fluid from his lungs, that they were lovers in the violent throes of sexual congress? . . . The city thickened around them like a forest; the buildings twined together and grew as matted as her hair. "No light can get in here," she whispered to him. "It's black; all black." She made as if to lie down and pull him towards her, towards the earth, but he shouted, "Quick, the church," and plunged into an