Pool_2

formlessness, but you are hard pressed to define it. This is that place just outside suburbia, just before horse raising and farm country where the ride ends. The train doesn't go past here. Why would it? It has been a while, so maybe some of this has changed, but in all probability not, as, in this place, little ever does. But at that time, just outside Trent, actually on a county road, about two thirds up Willow Lane, sat a charming Victorian house looking out over two front facing flower gardens embracing an artfully curved center stone walk which invited passing compliments with an inviting front porch framed in intricate white painted laced woodworking. The exterior was dressed in colonial gray, scalloped in shingles. They were, if one looked closely, heart shaped. How cute. Inside this home, one found well polished mahogany floors with more eclectic decorative tastes than the conservatively opulent outside might suggest. The round room was a perfect place for the grand piano, visually, although one might wonder if it would be an excess acoustically. Certainly cello and viola would not hold up to that full size piano in such a close and reverberant space. On the other hand, perhaps, solo piano performances might be enhanced by the room's resonance. There were, what, six fire places? Upstairs, each of the three bed rooms had one. Each bed was a study of thoughtful design, but not daring. Each bedroom set was perfectly suited to the unique theme of each of the rooms, in tasteful understated stately elegance. In two of the bedrooms, the closets and drawers were essentially empty. There were nicely wrapped necessities as might be afforded guests in an upscale hotel, but signs of even occasional use were lacking. The Guideons sure hadn't been here. The master bedroom was the only bedroom which was clearly used. Yet, it too was very neatly kept. The oddity of the master bedroom was the content of the