Fields and land to one side and the other. It finds its way into wells and is drawn up to launder petticoats and be boiled for tea. It is sucked into root membranes, travels up cell by cell to the sur...
Holding up a single picture and studying it with a frown. She’s seen a ghost,
Made
Myself, I found that my thoughts had been rearranged in my absence.
On a summer day winter always seems like something you have dreamt or heard spoken of and not a thing you have lived.
She could not be less than seventy-three or -four, and to judge by her appearance, altered though it was by illness and makeup, she could be no more than eighty.
Side by side, together and miles apart, we are deep in our books.
Undid my knitting. All those little knots that you make one after another, row by row, to knit a sock, I undid them. It’s easy. Take the needles out, a little tug and they just fall apart. One after a...
But he is a man, hence cannot see how tiresome it is to have explained at length what one has already fully understood.
On those days when he could not spend half an hour in the company of a good book, he felt deprived.
When people are expecting to see nothing that is usually what they see.
A curtain was drawn back in every man's inner theater and their storytelling minds got to work.
A river no more begins at its source than a story begins with the first page.
Ah, tributaries! That’s what I was meaning to come to. The Churn, the Key, the Ray, the Coln, the Leach, and the Cole: in these upper reaches of the Thames, these are the streams and rivulets that com...
And yet I cannot shake off my misgivings. Even now I can picture her face—so innocent in appearance, so distressed at being accused—and I am forced to wonder, is there some additional factor at play h...
Anyone would think you’d seen a ghost!
Art, its completeness, its formedness, its finishedness, had no power to console. Words on the other hand, were a lifeline. They left their hushed rhythm behind, a counter to the slow in and out of Em...
As we drove into Harrow-gate, the atmosphere in the car was heavy with Miss Winter’s oppressive silence.
Ask him to tell you about when he was born. What you get won’t be the truth; it will be a story.
At first the boys were puzzled by illness. They looked at their father from the other side of a wall of pain, bewildered that their father stood writing in his book, when he had only to reach over the...
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