Thomas Kinkade London painting

Thomas Kinkade London paintingThomas Kinkade Lombard Street painting
to warmth and peanut butter and liverwurst, to the familiar delight of the baby's good-night embrace, to the droll combat between beagle and cat, to music before sleep. Sometimes in these reveries Culver thought that it was the music, more than anything, which provided the key, and he recalled himself at a time which already seemed dark ages ago, surrounded by beer cans and attuned, in the nostalgic air of a winter evening, to some passage from some forgotten Haydn. It was one happy and ascending bar that he remembered, a dozen bright notes through which he passed in memory to an earlier, untroubled day at the end of childhood. There, like tumbling flowers against the sunny grass, their motions as nimble as the mu itself, two lovely little girls played tennis, called to him voicelessly, as in a dream, and waved their arms.
The sordid little town outside the camp possessed the horror of recognition, for Culver had been there before. They left the baby with a sister and headed South