The windowpanes reflected apples, reflected roses all the leaves were green in the glass. And so down again, the garden still as ever, only the book had slipped into the grass.īut they had found it in the drawing room. "Perhaps its upstairs then?" The apples were in the loft. "What did I come in here for? What did I want to find?" My hands were empty. And then, tired of reading, one might rise and see for oneself, the house all empty, the doors standing open, only the wood pigeons bubbling with content and the hum of the threshing machine sounding from the farm. "Now they've found it,' one would be certain, stopping the pencil on the margin. "They're looking for it they're drawing the curtain," one might say, and so read on a page or two. "Quietly," they said, "or we shall wake them."īut it wasn't that you woke us. And he added, "Oh, but here tool" "It's upstairs," she murmured. From room to room they went, hand in hand, lifting here, opening there, making sure-a ghostly couple. Whatever hour you woke there was a door shutting.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |