I arrived in New York in the late summer of 1883, having crossed by the Guion Line with the Liverpool and Great Western Company. At once, I set myself up with digs in Lower Manhattan near the Christopher Street Pier on the Hudson River, at the time a dark nest of competing factions. Wrapped up
“I have something to tell you.” It was seven months since the dead years ended. They had been barren but Anthony did not, at first, even notice. One day, he realised that great emotion was beyond him. He could have reacted, but instead he just accepted it and carried on. It changed at a bus
Seldon put his filofax back into his briefcase and shifted awkwardly in the uncomfortable chair, before looking over to the window at his client. Given the nature of the valuation, it was not exactly the scene he had pictured. And yet, money was money. Art was art. The auctioneer had made deals in less salubrious
