The Carbonels
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Оглавление
Yonge Charlotte Mary. The Carbonels
Chapter One. French Measure
Chapter Two. The Lie of the Land
Chapter Three. The Turnip Field
Chapter Four. Nobody’s Business
Chapter Five. At Home
Chapter Six. The Neighbourhood
Chapter Seven. Sunday School
Chapter Eight. Mary’s Approach
Chapter Nine. The Screen
Chapter Ten. Innovations
Chapter Eleven. An Unprofitable Crop
Chapter Twelve. Prizes
Chapter Thirteen. Against the Grain
Chapter Fourteen. An Offer Rejected
Chapter Fifteen. Scales of Justice
Chapter Sixteen. Linch-Pins
Chapter Seventeen. Progress or no Progress
Chapter Eighteen. The Threshing-Machine
Chapter Nineteen. A Night Journey
Chapter Twenty. The Royal Hotel
Chapter Twenty One. Jack Swing
Chapter Twenty Two. Great Mary and Little Mary
Chapter Twenty Three. The Machine
Chapter Twenty Four. Misjudged
Chapter Twenty Five. Judith
Chapter Twenty Six. The Golden Chains
Chapter Twenty Seven. Missed and Mourned
Chapter Twenty Eight. Conclusion
Отрывок из книги
Darkness had descended before there had been time to do more than shake into the downstair rooms and bedrooms and be refreshed with the evening meal, but with morning began the survey of the new home.
The front part of the house had three living rooms, with large sash windows, almost to the ground, shaded by the verandah. These were drawing-room, dining-room, and study, the last taken out of the entry, where was the staircase, and there were three similar rooms above. These had been added by the late owner to the original farmhouse, with a fine old-fashioned kitchen that sent Mary and Dora into greater raptures than their cook. There were offices around, a cool dairy, where stood great red glazed pans of delicious-looking cream and milk, and a clean white wooden churn that Dora longed to handle. The farmhouse rooms were between it and the new ones, and there were a good many rooms above, the red-tiled roof rising much higher than that of the more modern part of the house. There was a narrow paling in front, and then came the farmyard, enclosed in barns, cow-houses and cart-sheds, and a cottage where the bailiff, Master Pucklechurch, had taken up his abode, having hitherto lived in the farmhouse. He was waiting to show Captain Carbonel over the farm. He was a grizzled, stooping old fellow, with a fine, handsome, sunburnt face; bright, shrewd, dark eyes looking out between puckers, a short white smock-frock, and long gaiters. It was not their notion of a bailiff but the lawyer, who was so chary of his praise, had said that old Master Pucklechurch and his wife were absolutely trustworthy. They had managed the farm in the interregnum, and brought him weekly accounts in their heads, for neither could write, with the most perfect regularity and minuteness. And his face did indeed bespeak confidence in his honesty, as he touched his hat in answer to the greeting.
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“She can teach them all they need to know, and keep the little ones out of mischief,” said the farmer, perhaps beginning to be alarmed. “No use to learn them no more. What do they want of it for working in the fields or milking the cows?”
“They ought at least to know their duty to God and their neighbour,” said Captain Carbonel. “Is there no Sunday School?”
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