Wonderful years, wonderful years [antikvár]

IThe hotel was old and made of wood, three white clapboard stories set back on a long curving gravel drive among pines, oaks and maples in the foothills of the Berkshires. The trees concealed it from view from the Mohawk Trail.Four white columns supported the porte-cochere and the double doors leading into the foyer were painted dark green with tarnished brass hardware; the knockers were a pair of lions' heads. The floor of the foyer and lobby was red flagstone. It was furnished with white wicker. The oak registration desk was at the rear center of the lobby. Off to the left in the shadows was the entrance to the bar, small and cramped; off to the right was the dining room: twelve octagonal oak tables and seventy-two oak chairs. The tables in the morning were set with white paper placemats and pewter jam pots, in the evening with white tablecloths frayed at the edges and mended in places. The menu advised that boxed lunches consisting of sandwiches and pastries would be prepared on request at a charge of two-fifty per guest.To the left behind the registration desk there was an open hallway roofed in translucent greyish glass that led abruptly into a long solarium. The roof sloped away from the main building, the green iron framework rusting in places and slowly leaking at the joints, the large opaque rectangles of glass darkened by the stains and detritus of pine needles and leaves that had fallen and remained to rot undisturbed under years of rain and winter snow. The shadowy outlines of small broken branches showed through the glass. The two glass walls facing south and west were soiled from the foliage decomposing on the roof.The solarium was crowded with potted palms and ominous plants with broad leaves yellowed and browned at the edges. The air was heavy and moist. The flagstone floor was alternately slick and sticky underfoot. In the center there was a small unpainted iron fountain,