Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Updated: June 4, 2025
We had made up our minds to retain as little as possible of Mrs. Handsomebody's teaching and we had succeeded so well in our purpose, that, at nine and ten we had about as much book-learning as would have befitted The Seraph, while he retained the serene ignorance of babyhood. But in affairs of the imagination we were no laggards.
It was a benign house, like a sleepy mastiff, and seemed to tolerate with lazy indifference the presence of its two narrow, high-backed neighbours, which with their cold, unblinking windows, looked like sinister, half-fed cats. We had not been long at Mrs. Handsomebody's before we made friends with Bishop Torrance.
She rapped loudly at Mrs. Handsomebody's bedroom door. There were whispers. Then Mrs. Handsomebody's voice came decidedly: "Go about your work with the utmost speed. Say nothing to the boys of this. I shall tell them when they have had their breakfast." In a moment she appeared at our door in her purple dressing-gown, an expression of repressed excitement on her face.
"Well," he replied, "since you ask me seriously, I should say this little curl on The Seraph's nape." The Seraph felt for it. "I yike it," he said, "but I yike my wart better." "Good gracious," exclaimed the Bishop. "Don't tell me you've a wart!" "Yes, a weal one," chuckled The Seraph. "It's little, but it's gwowing. I fink some day it'll be as big as the one on Mrs. Handsomebody's chin.
And, instead of Mrs. Handsomebody's austere figure dominating our repast, there was Mary Ellen, resting her red knuckles on the table-cloth, and fairly bubbling over with plans for the prospective entertainment of her lover! Our hearts went out to the good girl and her Mr. Watlin. We began to think of him as a dear friend.
The cobbler lived in the tiniest of a group of tiny houses that huddled together, in a panicky fashion, in a narrow street behind Mrs. Handsomebody's house. From an upper window we could look down on their roofs, where the plump, Cathedral pigeons used to congregate to gossip and sun themselves. You went down three stone steps into the cobbler's shop.
Handsomebody's house with the blinds drawn three-quarters of the way down the windows seemed to watch my approach with an air of cold cynicism. Softly I turned the door-knob and entered the dim hall. All was quiet, a quiet pervaded by the familiar smell of old fabrics, bygone meals, and umbrellas. The white door of the parlour towered like a ghost. I put my arm across my eyes and began to cry.
Handsomebody's head looked abnormally large to me, and seemed to be whirling round and round. Surely she was not getting like the cobbler's wife! Mrs. Handsomebody was still scolding: "You began the day by introducing a canary of the lowest proclivities into my case of stuffed birds, where he perpetrated irreparable damage " The Seraph interrupted, "Don't you yike live birds, Mrs. Handsomebody?"
Scarcely a word was spoken. Now that what we had so long strained towards was at hand we stood breathless before the immensity of it. The long year and nine months at Mrs. Handsomebody's fell like a heavy curtain between us and the past. Our father's face had grown hazy to us. I think The Seraph only pretended to remember.
Mrs. Handsomebody's face was a mask. She said composedly: "Well, get the bitters and then bring in the dog." Mary Ellen did as she was bid. Enter now Giftie, tail up, ears pricked, the picture of conscious well-doing. She went straight to Mrs.
Word Of The Day
Others Looking