Richard Llewellyn Quote
How quiet is the house when the mistress has gone. You walk in, and the same smell is a comfort to you, the air on your cheek has the same feel, the fire makes the same noise, the china plates on the dresser shelves laugh at you as they always did, and the clock is still as loud as he always was with his heels on the road of Time. But a warmness is missing, a briskness, that moved as soon as the latch was lifted, and those sounds that followed, the rattle of the teacaddy, the crunch of the lid, the chime of spoons in saucers, the poking of the fire, and the hot hurry of scalding water upon tea leaves, are gone, too.
Richard Llewellyn
How quiet is the house when the mistress has gone. You walk in, and the same smell is a comfort to you, the air on your cheek has the same feel, the fire makes the same noise, the china plates on the dresser shelves laugh at you as they always did, and the clock is still as loud as he always was with his heels on the road of Time. But a warmness is missing, a briskness, that moved as soon as the latch was lifted, and those sounds that followed, the rattle of the teacaddy, the crunch of the lid, the chime of spoons in saucers, the poking of the fire, and the hot hurry of scalding water upon tea leaves, are gone, too.
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About Richard Llewellyn
Richard Dafydd Vivian Llewellyn Lloyd (né Richard Herbert Vivian Lloyd; 8 December 1906, London – 30 November 1983, Dublin), known by his pen name Richard Llewellyn ( loo-EL-in, Welsh: [ɬəˈwɛlɪn]), was a British novelist of a Welsh background, who is best remembered for his 1939 novel How Green Was My Valley, which chronicles life in a coal mining village in the South Wales Valleys.