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{{Style P-Subtitle|An Astonishing Conversation With the Presiding Genius of the Place}} | |||
... | The rose-pink curtains were no longer there, but when the reporter entered, the softly-shaded gaslight shone back by reflection from the same blue-glass window on the same heaps of manuscripts and proof-sheets that lay on Mme. Blavatsky’s table when he called before. Mine. Blavatsky, it will be remembered by the {{Style S-Small capitals| World’s}} readers, is a Russian countess, who-now lives on Eighth avenue in this city, and is Corresponding Secretary of the Theosophical Society—the same which conducted the cremation of the late Baron de Palm. | ||
{{Style S-HPB SB. Continues on|4-50}} | Mme. Blavatsky’s parlor is rather large, but so full of all manner of furniture and articles of vertu as to seem small. Two good-sized bookcases, three library-tables and a piano are the most conspicuous articles of furniture, but a lounge and an infinite number of easy-chairs till nearly all the remaining space. On the piano is a hideous image of Buddha, {{Style S-HPB SB. Continues on|4-50}} | ||
{{HPB-SB-footer-footnotes}} | {{HPB-SB-footer-footnotes}} | ||