His gloved fingers grasped the knocker, raised it, and brought it sharply down upon its anvil with the percussive report of a pistol shot.As I sit here, in the sunlight warmth of my aging but resilient mother's trim and comfortable home, my eyes stray to the snow-kissed slope outside her shuttered windows. This must be because I crave distraction from the new mystery novel I have been offered for review. Its engaging premise drew me in, as did its intriguing historical basis, but the earnest, most likely well-meaning, author has instilled so many unnecessary flourishes and overwrought adjectives into his cluttered prose that I feel the need to emit a silent but anguished scream, and I'm only on page 3.
...The only illumination came from the stuttering light of a single gas jet turned low.
'Just one moment!' [our hero] began to protest. 'Am I to be cast into the darkness?'
Yes, dear book, I am afraid so.