Arabella, a maiden beautiful and spring married to the prosperous Duke Edward and was content until in December abandoned she, became a bitter widow. The shady, grim Arabella inherited the Foster hotel from her beloved, infant in arms. Arabella had managed well without her lovely grace, though her methods remain dignifiedly unknown, protecting her from the ugly whispers among the aimless.
However shameless she had become, one cannot but bitterly admit that she is extremely cunning at arranging her inheritances. Her slim silhouette would emerge from the horizon aligning at the outskirts of town, in her dusty black coat and a worn brown case, she is as if the definition of mystery itself. Packed in those heavy brims the most exotic of collections, marvels, and slogans written in a foreign tongue, organic cigarettes wrapped in thin ivory, and even once a single boot of silver alligator skin. The crowd, never in their life had seen such wonders, nor that they could ever imagine the existence of a single item Arabella had seen.
Her fame had made well known of her hotel, for which it was nicknamed “Hotel Arabella” with suspicious intentions. No straight men would live in such a facility in hopes of seeking temporary shelter. But men like me, men who are proud outcasts will indeed rest within the moistly rotten couches and guzzle on the remaining gentleness of sanity with teeth strengthened in unknown hatred. There is no need to justify the positives about Hotel Arabella. My heart beats for the love for Arabella, for the love of life and for every bitter, breath-taking eternity, in which I will escort you through in our journey.