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The Writings of Anne Isabella Thackeray (Classic Reprint)
EN NWISBN: 9781331050971 bzw. 1331050979, in Englisch, Forgotten Books, neu.
Lieferung aus: Deutschland, Versandfertig in 5 - 7 Tagen.
Excerpt from The Writings of Anne Isabella Thackeray We have all of us in the course of our life´s journeys sometimes lived for a little while in places which were wearisome and monotonous to us at the time; which had little to attract or to interest; we may have left them without regret, never even wishing to return. But yet as we have travelled away, we may have found that through some subtle and unconscious attraction, sights, sounds, and peculiarities which we thought we had scarcely noticed, seem to be repeating themselves in our brains; the atmosphere of the place seems to be haunting us, as though unwilling to let us escape. And this peculiar distinctness and vividness does not appear to wear out with time and distance. The pictures are like those of a magic-lantern, and come suddenly out of the dimness and darkness, starting into life when the lamp is lighted by some chance association; so clearly and sharply defined and colored, that we can scarcely believe that they are only reflections from old slides which have been lying in our store for years past. The slides upon which this little history is painted, somewhat rudely and roughly, have come from Petitport in Normandy, a dull little fishing-town upon the coast. It stands almost opposite to Ryde, in the Isle of Wight. The place is quite uninteresting, the district is not beautiful, but broad and fertile and sad and pleasant together. The country folks are high-spirited and sometimes gay, but usually grave, as people are who live by the sea. They are a well-grown, stately race, good-mannered, ready and shrewd in their talk and their dealings; they are willing to make friends, but they are at the same time reserved and careful of what they say. English people are little known at Petitport - one or two had staid at the Chateau de Tracy ´´dans le temps,´´ they told me, for Madame herself was of English parentage, and so was Madame Fontaine, who married from there. But the strangers who came to lodge in the place for the sake of the sea-bathing and the fine sands were from Caen and Bayeux for the most part, and only remained during a week or two. Except just on fête-days and while the bathing-time lasted, every thing was very still at Petitport. Sometimes all the men would go away together in the boats, leaving the women and children alone in the village. I was there after the bathing-season was over, and before the first fishing-fleet left. The fishermen´s wives were all busy preparing provisions, making ready, sewing at warm clothes, and helping to mend the nets before their husbands´ departure. I could see them hard at work through the open doors as I walked up the steep little village street. There is a precipitous path at the farther end of the village which leads down to the beach below. One comes to it by some steps which descend along the side of a smart little house built on the very edge of the cliff - a ´´chalet,´´ they call it. It has many windows and weathercocks, and muslin curtains and wooden balconies; and there is a sort of embankment or terrace-walk halfway to the sea. This was Madame Fontaine´s chalet, the people told me - her husband had left it to her in his last will and testament - but she did not inhabit it. I had never seen any one come out of the place except once a fiercely capped maid-servant with beetle brows, who went climbing up the hill beyond the chalet, and finally disappeared over its crest. It seemed as if the maid and the house were destined to be blown right away in time; all the winds came rushing across the fields and the country, and beating against the hillside, and it was a battle to reach the steps which led down to the quiet below. A wide sea is heaving and flashing at one´s feet, as one descends the steep, the boats lie like specks on the shingle, birds go flying wind-blown below one´s feet, and the rushi.
Excerpt from The Writings of Anne Isabella Thackeray We have all of us in the course of our life´s journeys sometimes lived for a little while in places which were wearisome and monotonous to us at the time; which had little to attract or to interest; we may have left them without regret, never even wishing to return. But yet as we have travelled away, we may have found that through some subtle and unconscious attraction, sights, sounds, and peculiarities which we thought we had scarcely noticed, seem to be repeating themselves in our brains; the atmosphere of the place seems to be haunting us, as though unwilling to let us escape. And this peculiar distinctness and vividness does not appear to wear out with time and distance. The pictures are like those of a magic-lantern, and come suddenly out of the dimness and darkness, starting into life when the lamp is lighted by some chance association; so clearly and sharply defined and colored, that we can scarcely believe that they are only reflections from old slides which have been lying in our store for years past. The slides upon which this little history is painted, somewhat rudely and roughly, have come from Petitport in Normandy, a dull little fishing-town upon the coast. It stands almost opposite to Ryde, in the Isle of Wight. The place is quite uninteresting, the district is not beautiful, but broad and fertile and sad and pleasant together. The country folks are high-spirited and sometimes gay, but usually grave, as people are who live by the sea. They are a well-grown, stately race, good-mannered, ready and shrewd in their talk and their dealings; they are willing to make friends, but they are at the same time reserved and careful of what they say. English people are little known at Petitport - one or two had staid at the Chateau de Tracy ´´dans le temps,´´ they told me, for Madame herself was of English parentage, and so was Madame Fontaine, who married from there. But the strangers who came to lodge in the place for the sake of the sea-bathing and the fine sands were from Caen and Bayeux for the most part, and only remained during a week or two. Except just on fête-days and while the bathing-time lasted, every thing was very still at Petitport. Sometimes all the men would go away together in the boats, leaving the women and children alone in the village. I was there after the bathing-season was over, and before the first fishing-fleet left. The fishermen´s wives were all busy preparing provisions, making ready, sewing at warm clothes, and helping to mend the nets before their husbands´ departure. I could see them hard at work through the open doors as I walked up the steep little village street. There is a precipitous path at the farther end of the village which leads down to the beach below. One comes to it by some steps which descend along the side of a smart little house built on the very edge of the cliff - a ´´chalet,´´ they call it. It has many windows and weathercocks, and muslin curtains and wooden balconies; and there is a sort of embankment or terrace-walk halfway to the sea. This was Madame Fontaine´s chalet, the people told me - her husband had left it to her in his last will and testament - but she did not inhabit it. I had never seen any one come out of the place except once a fiercely capped maid-servant with beetle brows, who went climbing up the hill beyond the chalet, and finally disappeared over its crest. It seemed as if the maid and the house were destined to be blown right away in time; all the winds came rushing across the fields and the country, and beating against the hillside, and it was a battle to reach the steps which led down to the quiet below. A wide sea is heaving and flashing at one´s feet, as one descends the steep, the boats lie like specks on the shingle, birds go flying wind-blown below one´s feet, and the rushi.
2
The Writings of (Classic Reprint) (2015)
EN PB NWISBN: 9781331050971 bzw. 1331050979, in Englisch, 438 Seiten, Forgotten Books, Taschenbuch, neu.
Lieferung aus: Vereinigte Staaten von Amerika, Usually ships in 2 to 4 weeks.
Von Händler/Antiquariat, Amazon.com.
Excerpt from The Writings of Anne Isabella Thackeray We have all of us in the course of our life's journeys sometimes lived for a little while in places which were wearisome and monotonous to us at the time; which had little to attract or to interest; we may have left them without regret, never even wishing to return. But yet as we have travelled away, we may have found that through some subtle and unconscious attraction, sights, sounds, and peculiarities which we thought we had scarcely noticed, seem to be repeating themselves in our brains; the atmosphere of the place seems to be haunting us, as though unwilling to let us escape. And this peculiar distinctness and vividness does not appear to wear out with time and distance. The pictures are like those of a magic-lantern, and come suddenly out of the dimness and darkness, starting into life when the lamp is lighted by some chance association; so clearly and sharply defined and colored, that we can scarcely believe that they are only reflections from old slides which have been lying in our store for years past. The slides upon which this little history is painted, somewhat rudely and roughly, have come from Petitport in Normandy, a dull little fishing-town upon the coast. It stands almost opposite to Ryde, in the Isle of Wight. The place is quite uninteresting, the district is not beautiful, but broad and fertile and sad and pleasant together. The country folks are high-spirited and sometimes gay, but usually grave, as people are who live by the sea. They are a well-grown, stately race, good-mannered, ready and shrewd in their talk and their dealings; they are willing to make friends, but they are at the same time reserved and careful of what they say. English people are little known at Petitport - one or two had staid at the Chateau de Tracy "dans le temps," they told me, for Madame herself was of English parentage, and so was Madame Fontaine, who married from there. But the strangers who came to lodge in the place for the sake of the sea-bathing and the fine sands were from Caen and Bayeux for the most part, and only remained during a week or two. Except just on fête-days and while the bathing-time lasted, every thing was very still at Petitport. Sometimes all the men would go away together in the boats, leaving the women and children alone in the village. I was there after the bathing-season was over, and before the first fishing-fleet left. The fishermen's wives were all busy preparing provisions, making ready, sewing at warm clothes, and helping to mend the nets before their husbands' departure. I could see them hard at work through the open doors as I walked up the steep little village street. There is a precipitous path at the farther end of the village which leads down to the beach below. One comes to it by some steps which descend along the side of a smart little house built on the very edge of the cliff - a "chalet," they call it. It has many windows and weathercocks, and muslin curtains and wooden balconies; and there is a sort of embankment or terrace-walk halfway to the sea. This was Madame Fontaine's chalet, the people told me - her husband had left it to her in his last will and testament - but she did not inhabit it. I had never seen any one come out of the place except once a fiercely capped maid-servant with beetle brows, who went climbing up the hill beyond the chalet, and finally disappeared over its crest. It seemed as if the maid and the house were destined to be blown right away in time; all the winds came rushing across the fields and the country, and beating against the hillside, and it was a battle to reach the steps which led down to the quiet below. A wide sea is heaving and flashing at one's feet, as one descends the steep, the boats lie like specks on the shingle, birds go flying wind-blown below one's feet, and the rushing sound of the tide seems to fill the air. When I reached the foot of the cliff at last, I l, Paperback, Label: Forgotten Books, Forgotten Books, Produktgruppe: Book, Publiziert: 2015-09-27, Studio: Forgotten Books.
Von Händler/Antiquariat, Amazon.com.
Excerpt from The Writings of Anne Isabella Thackeray We have all of us in the course of our life's journeys sometimes lived for a little while in places which were wearisome and monotonous to us at the time; which had little to attract or to interest; we may have left them without regret, never even wishing to return. But yet as we have travelled away, we may have found that through some subtle and unconscious attraction, sights, sounds, and peculiarities which we thought we had scarcely noticed, seem to be repeating themselves in our brains; the atmosphere of the place seems to be haunting us, as though unwilling to let us escape. And this peculiar distinctness and vividness does not appear to wear out with time and distance. The pictures are like those of a magic-lantern, and come suddenly out of the dimness and darkness, starting into life when the lamp is lighted by some chance association; so clearly and sharply defined and colored, that we can scarcely believe that they are only reflections from old slides which have been lying in our store for years past. The slides upon which this little history is painted, somewhat rudely and roughly, have come from Petitport in Normandy, a dull little fishing-town upon the coast. It stands almost opposite to Ryde, in the Isle of Wight. The place is quite uninteresting, the district is not beautiful, but broad and fertile and sad and pleasant together. The country folks are high-spirited and sometimes gay, but usually grave, as people are who live by the sea. They are a well-grown, stately race, good-mannered, ready and shrewd in their talk and their dealings; they are willing to make friends, but they are at the same time reserved and careful of what they say. English people are little known at Petitport - one or two had staid at the Chateau de Tracy "dans le temps," they told me, for Madame herself was of English parentage, and so was Madame Fontaine, who married from there. But the strangers who came to lodge in the place for the sake of the sea-bathing and the fine sands were from Caen and Bayeux for the most part, and only remained during a week or two. Except just on fête-days and while the bathing-time lasted, every thing was very still at Petitport. Sometimes all the men would go away together in the boats, leaving the women and children alone in the village. I was there after the bathing-season was over, and before the first fishing-fleet left. The fishermen's wives were all busy preparing provisions, making ready, sewing at warm clothes, and helping to mend the nets before their husbands' departure. I could see them hard at work through the open doors as I walked up the steep little village street. There is a precipitous path at the farther end of the village which leads down to the beach below. One comes to it by some steps which descend along the side of a smart little house built on the very edge of the cliff - a "chalet," they call it. It has many windows and weathercocks, and muslin curtains and wooden balconies; and there is a sort of embankment or terrace-walk halfway to the sea. This was Madame Fontaine's chalet, the people told me - her husband had left it to her in his last will and testament - but she did not inhabit it. I had never seen any one come out of the place except once a fiercely capped maid-servant with beetle brows, who went climbing up the hill beyond the chalet, and finally disappeared over its crest. It seemed as if the maid and the house were destined to be blown right away in time; all the winds came rushing across the fields and the country, and beating against the hillside, and it was a battle to reach the steps which led down to the quiet below. A wide sea is heaving and flashing at one's feet, as one descends the steep, the boats lie like specks on the shingle, birds go flying wind-blown below one's feet, and the rushing sound of the tide seems to fill the air. When I reached the foot of the cliff at last, I l, Paperback, Label: Forgotten Books, Forgotten Books, Produktgruppe: Book, Publiziert: 2015-09-27, Studio: Forgotten Books.
3
The Writings of (Classic Reprint) (2015)
EN PB USISBN: 9781331050971 bzw. 1331050979, in Englisch, 438 Seiten, Forgotten Books, Taschenbuch, gebraucht.
Lieferung aus: Vereinigte Staaten von Amerika, Usually ships in 1-2 business days.
Von Händler/Antiquariat, super_star_seller.
Excerpt from The Writings of Anne Isabella Thackeray We have all of us in the course of our life's journeys sometimes lived for a little while in places which were wearisome and monotonous to us at the time; which had little to attract or to interest; we may have left them without regret, never even wishing to return. But yet as we have travelled away, we may have found that through some subtle and unconscious attraction, sights, sounds, and peculiarities which we thought we had scarcely noticed, seem to be repeating themselves in our brains; the atmosphere of the place seems to be haunting us, as though unwilling to let us escape. And this peculiar distinctness and vividness does not appear to wear out with time and distance. The pictures are like those of a magic-lantern, and come suddenly out of the dimness and darkness, starting into life when the lamp is lighted by some chance association; so clearly and sharply defined and colored, that we can scarcely believe that they are only reflections from old slides which have been lying in our store for years past. The slides upon which this little history is painted, somewhat rudely and roughly, have come from Petitport in Normandy, a dull little fishing-town upon the coast. It stands almost opposite to Ryde, in the Isle of Wight. The place is quite uninteresting, the district is not beautiful, but broad and fertile and sad and pleasant together. The country folks are high-spirited and sometimes gay, but usually grave, as people are who live by the sea. They are a well-grown, stately race, good-mannered, ready and shrewd in their talk and their dealings; they are willing to make friends, but they are at the same time reserved and careful of what they say. English people are little known at Petitport - one or two had staid at the Chateau de Tracy "dans le temps," they told me, for Madame herself was of English parentage, and so was Madame Fontaine, who married from there. But the strangers who came to lodge in the place for the sake of the sea-bathing and the fine sands were from Caen and Bayeux for the most part, and only remained during a week or two. Except just on fête-days and while the bathing-time lasted, every thing was very still at Petitport. Sometimes all the men would go away together in the boats, leaving the women and children alone in the village. I was there after the bathing-season was over, and before the first fishing-fleet left. The fishermen's wives were all busy preparing provisions, making ready, sewing at warm clothes, and helping to mend the nets before their husbands' departure. I could see them hard at work through the open doors as I walked up the steep little village street. There is a precipitous path at the farther end of the village which leads down to the beach below. One comes to it by some steps which descend along the side of a smart little house built on the very edge of the cliff - a "chalet," they call it. It has many windows and weathercocks, and muslin curtains and wooden balconies; and there is a sort of embankment or terrace-walk halfway to the sea. This was Madame Fontaine's chalet, the people told me - her husband had left it to her in his last will and testament - but she did not inhabit it. I had never seen any one come out of the place except once a fiercely capped maid-servant with beetle brows, who went climbing up the hill beyond the chalet, and finally disappeared over its crest. It seemed as if the maid and the house were destined to be blown right away in time; all the winds came rushing across the fields and the country, and beating against the hillside, and it was a battle to reach the steps which led down to the quiet below. A wide sea is heaving and flashing at one's feet, as one descends the steep, the boats lie like specks on the shingle, birds go flying wind-blown below one's feet, and the rushing sound of the tide seems to fill the air. When I reached the foot of the cliff at last, I l, Paperback, Label: Forgotten Books, Forgotten Books, Produktgruppe: Book, Publiziert: 2015-09-27, Studio: Forgotten Books.
Von Händler/Antiquariat, super_star_seller.
Excerpt from The Writings of Anne Isabella Thackeray We have all of us in the course of our life's journeys sometimes lived for a little while in places which were wearisome and monotonous to us at the time; which had little to attract or to interest; we may have left them without regret, never even wishing to return. But yet as we have travelled away, we may have found that through some subtle and unconscious attraction, sights, sounds, and peculiarities which we thought we had scarcely noticed, seem to be repeating themselves in our brains; the atmosphere of the place seems to be haunting us, as though unwilling to let us escape. And this peculiar distinctness and vividness does not appear to wear out with time and distance. The pictures are like those of a magic-lantern, and come suddenly out of the dimness and darkness, starting into life when the lamp is lighted by some chance association; so clearly and sharply defined and colored, that we can scarcely believe that they are only reflections from old slides which have been lying in our store for years past. The slides upon which this little history is painted, somewhat rudely and roughly, have come from Petitport in Normandy, a dull little fishing-town upon the coast. It stands almost opposite to Ryde, in the Isle of Wight. The place is quite uninteresting, the district is not beautiful, but broad and fertile and sad and pleasant together. The country folks are high-spirited and sometimes gay, but usually grave, as people are who live by the sea. They are a well-grown, stately race, good-mannered, ready and shrewd in their talk and their dealings; they are willing to make friends, but they are at the same time reserved and careful of what they say. English people are little known at Petitport - one or two had staid at the Chateau de Tracy "dans le temps," they told me, for Madame herself was of English parentage, and so was Madame Fontaine, who married from there. But the strangers who came to lodge in the place for the sake of the sea-bathing and the fine sands were from Caen and Bayeux for the most part, and only remained during a week or two. Except just on fête-days and while the bathing-time lasted, every thing was very still at Petitport. Sometimes all the men would go away together in the boats, leaving the women and children alone in the village. I was there after the bathing-season was over, and before the first fishing-fleet left. The fishermen's wives were all busy preparing provisions, making ready, sewing at warm clothes, and helping to mend the nets before their husbands' departure. I could see them hard at work through the open doors as I walked up the steep little village street. There is a precipitous path at the farther end of the village which leads down to the beach below. One comes to it by some steps which descend along the side of a smart little house built on the very edge of the cliff - a "chalet," they call it. It has many windows and weathercocks, and muslin curtains and wooden balconies; and there is a sort of embankment or terrace-walk halfway to the sea. This was Madame Fontaine's chalet, the people told me - her husband had left it to her in his last will and testament - but she did not inhabit it. I had never seen any one come out of the place except once a fiercely capped maid-servant with beetle brows, who went climbing up the hill beyond the chalet, and finally disappeared over its crest. It seemed as if the maid and the house were destined to be blown right away in time; all the winds came rushing across the fields and the country, and beating against the hillside, and it was a battle to reach the steps which led down to the quiet below. A wide sea is heaving and flashing at one's feet, as one descends the steep, the boats lie like specks on the shingle, birds go flying wind-blown below one's feet, and the rushing sound of the tide seems to fill the air. When I reached the foot of the cliff at last, I l, Paperback, Label: Forgotten Books, Forgotten Books, Produktgruppe: Book, Publiziert: 2015-09-27, Studio: Forgotten Books.
4
The Writings of (Classic Reprint)
EN NWISBN: 9781331050971 bzw. 1331050979, in Englisch, neu.
Lieferung aus: Deutschland, Versandfertig in 5 - 7 Tagen.
The Writings of Anne Isabella Thackeray (Classic Reprint), Excerpt from The Writings of Anne Isabella Thackeray We have all of us in the course of our life's journeys sometimes lived for a little while in places which were wearisome and monotonous to us at the time; which had little to attract or to interest; we may have left them without regret, never even wishing to return. But yet as we have travelled away, we may have found that through some subtle and unconscious attraction, sights, sounds, and peculiarities which we thought we had scarcely noticed, seem to be repeating themselves in our brains; the atmosphere of the place seems to be haunting us, as though unwilling to let us escape. And this peculiar distinctness and vividness does not appear to wear out with time and distance. The pictures are like those of a magic-lantern, and come suddenly out of the dimness and darkness, starting into life when the lamp is lighted by some chance association; so clearly and sharply defined and colored, that we can scarcely believe that they are only reflections from old slides which have been lying in our store for years past. The slides upon which this little history is painted, somewhat rudely and roughly, have come from Petitport in Normandy, a dull little fishing-town upon the coast. It stands almost opposite to Ryde, in the Isle of Wight. The place is quite uninteresting, the district is not beautiful, but broad and fertile and sad and pleasant together. The country folks are high-spirited and sometimes gay, but usually grave, as people are who live by the sea. They are a well-grown, stately race, good-mannered, ready and shrewd in their talk and their dealings; they are willing to make friends, but they are at the same time reserved and careful of what they say. English people are little known at Petitport - one or two had staid at the Chateau de Tracy "dans le temps," they told me, for Madame herself was of English parentage, and so was Madame Fontaine, who married from there. But the strangers who came to lodge in the place for the sake of the sea-bathing and the fine sands were from Caen and Bayeux for the most part, and only remained during a week or two. Except just on fête-days and while the bathing-time lasted, every thing was very still at Petitport. Sometimes all the men would go away together in the boats, leaving the women and children alone in the village. I was there after the bathing-season was over, and before the first fishing-fleet left. The fishermen's wives were all busy preparing provisions, making ready, sewing at warm clothes, and helping to mend the nets before their husbands' departure. I could see them hard at work through the open doors as I walked up the steep little village street. There is a precipitous path at the farther end of the village which leads down to the beach below. One comes to it by some steps which descend along the side of a smart little house built on the very edge of the cliff - a "chalet," they call it. It has many windows and weathercocks, and muslin curtains and wooden balconies; and there is a sort of embankment or terrace-walk halfway to the sea. This was Madame Fontaine's chalet, the people told me - her husband had left it to her in his last will and testament - but she did not inhabit it. I had never seen any one come out of the place except once a fiercely capped maid-servant with beetle brows, who went climbing up the hill beyond the chalet, and finally disappeared over its crest. It seemed as if the maid and the house were destined to be blown right away in time; all the winds came rushing across the fields and the country, and beating against the hillside, and it was a battle to reach the steps which led down to the quiet below. A wide sea is heaving and flashing at one's feet, as one descends the steep, the boats lie like specks on the shingle, birds go flying wind-blown below one's feet, and the rushi.
The Writings of Anne Isabella Thackeray (Classic Reprint), Excerpt from The Writings of Anne Isabella Thackeray We have all of us in the course of our life's journeys sometimes lived for a little while in places which were wearisome and monotonous to us at the time; which had little to attract or to interest; we may have left them without regret, never even wishing to return. But yet as we have travelled away, we may have found that through some subtle and unconscious attraction, sights, sounds, and peculiarities which we thought we had scarcely noticed, seem to be repeating themselves in our brains; the atmosphere of the place seems to be haunting us, as though unwilling to let us escape. And this peculiar distinctness and vividness does not appear to wear out with time and distance. The pictures are like those of a magic-lantern, and come suddenly out of the dimness and darkness, starting into life when the lamp is lighted by some chance association; so clearly and sharply defined and colored, that we can scarcely believe that they are only reflections from old slides which have been lying in our store for years past. The slides upon which this little history is painted, somewhat rudely and roughly, have come from Petitport in Normandy, a dull little fishing-town upon the coast. It stands almost opposite to Ryde, in the Isle of Wight. The place is quite uninteresting, the district is not beautiful, but broad and fertile and sad and pleasant together. The country folks are high-spirited and sometimes gay, but usually grave, as people are who live by the sea. They are a well-grown, stately race, good-mannered, ready and shrewd in their talk and their dealings; they are willing to make friends, but they are at the same time reserved and careful of what they say. English people are little known at Petitport - one or two had staid at the Chateau de Tracy "dans le temps," they told me, for Madame herself was of English parentage, and so was Madame Fontaine, who married from there. But the strangers who came to lodge in the place for the sake of the sea-bathing and the fine sands were from Caen and Bayeux for the most part, and only remained during a week or two. Except just on fête-days and while the bathing-time lasted, every thing was very still at Petitport. Sometimes all the men would go away together in the boats, leaving the women and children alone in the village. I was there after the bathing-season was over, and before the first fishing-fleet left. The fishermen's wives were all busy preparing provisions, making ready, sewing at warm clothes, and helping to mend the nets before their husbands' departure. I could see them hard at work through the open doors as I walked up the steep little village street. There is a precipitous path at the farther end of the village which leads down to the beach below. One comes to it by some steps which descend along the side of a smart little house built on the very edge of the cliff - a "chalet," they call it. It has many windows and weathercocks, and muslin curtains and wooden balconies; and there is a sort of embankment or terrace-walk halfway to the sea. This was Madame Fontaine's chalet, the people told me - her husband had left it to her in his last will and testament - but she did not inhabit it. I had never seen any one come out of the place except once a fiercely capped maid-servant with beetle brows, who went climbing up the hill beyond the chalet, and finally disappeared over its crest. It seemed as if the maid and the house were destined to be blown right away in time; all the winds came rushing across the fields and the country, and beating against the hillside, and it was a battle to reach the steps which led down to the quiet below. A wide sea is heaving and flashing at one's feet, as one descends the steep, the boats lie like specks on the shingle, birds go flying wind-blown below one's feet, and the rushi.
5
The Writings of (Classic Reprint)
EN PB NWISBN: 9781331050971 bzw. 1331050979, in Englisch, FB &c Ltd, Taschenbuch, neu.
Lieferung aus: Vereinigte Staaten von Amerika, Lagernd, zzgl. Versandkosten.
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