The Days of My Life: An Autobiography
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Oliphant Margaret. The Days of My Life: An Autobiography
BOOK I. THE DAYS OF MY LIFE
THE FIRST DAY
THE SECOND DAY
THE THIRD DAY
THE FOURTH DAY
THE FIFTH DAY
THE SIXTH DAY
THE SEVENTH DAY
THE EIGHTH DAY
THE NINTH DAY
THE TENTH DAY
BOOK II. THE DAYS OF MY LIFE
THE FIRST DAY
THE SECOND DAY
THE THIRD DAY
THE FOURTH DAY
THE FIFTH DAY
THE SIXTH DAY
THE SEVENTH DAY
THE EIGHTH DAY
THE NINTH DAY
THE TENTH DAY
BOOK III. THE DAYS OF MY LIFE
THE FIRST DAY
THE SECOND DAY
THE THIRD DAY
THE FOURTH DAY
THE FIFTH DAY
THE SIXTH DAY
THE SEVENTH DAY
THE EIGHTH DAY
THE NINTH DAY
THE TENTH DAY
ANOTHER DAY
Отрывок из книги
I WAS going home from the village, and it was an autumn evening, just after sunset, when every crop was cut and housed in our level country, and when the fields of stubble and browned grass had nothing on them, except here and there, a tree. They say our bare flats, in Cambridgeshire, are neither picturesque, nor beautiful. I cannot say for that – but I know no landscape has ever caught my eye like the long line of sunburnt, wiry grass, and the great, wide arch above, with all its shades of beautiful color. There were no hedgerows to skirt the path on which I was, and I saw nothing between me and the sky, save a solitary figure stalking along the highway, and in the other direction the clump of trees which surrounded Cottiswoode; the sky, in the west, was still full of the colors of the sunset, and from the horizon it rose upward in a multitude of tints and shades, the orange and red melting into a rosy flush which contrasted for a while, and then fell into the sweet, calm, peaceful tone of the full blue. In the time of the year, and the look of the night, there was alike that indescribable composure and satisfaction which are in the sunny evenings after harvest; the work was done, the day was fading, everything was going home; the rooks sailed over the sky, and the laborer trudged across the moor. Labor was over, and provision made, and the evening and the night, peace and refreshment, and rest were coming for every man. I do not suppose I noticed this at the time, but I have the strongest impression of it all in my remembrance now.
And I was passing along, as I always did, quickly and, perhaps, with a firmer and a steadier step than was usual to girls of my years, swinging in my hand a bit of briony, which, for the sake of its beautiful berries, I was carrying home, but which stood a good chance of being destroyed before we got there – not taking leisure to look much about me, thinking of nothing particular, with a little air of the superior, the lady of the manor, in my independent carriage – a little pride of proprietorship in my firm footstep.
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“I know it would be very hard to take him home to Cottiswoode for a Southcote, and then to find out he was not uncle Brian’s son,” I said, looking up anxiously at my father, “and you know better than I, and remember my uncle; but papa —I believe him – see! I knew it – he is like that picture there!”
My father turned to the picture with a start of terror; it was an Edgar Southcote I was pointing to – a philosopher; one of the few of our house, who loved wisdom better than houses or lands, one who had died early after a sad short life. My father’s face burned as he looked at the picture; the refined visionary head drooping over a book, and the large delicate eyelids with their long lashes were so like, so very like! – it struck him in a moment. “Papa, I believe him,” I repeated very earnestly. My father started from me, and paced about the room in angry agitation.
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