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Wylder's Hand

Om Wylder's Hand

The pretty mill-road, running up through Redman's Dell, dank and dark with tall romantic trees, was left behind in another moment; and we were now traversing the homely and antique street of the little town, with its queer shops and solid steep-roofed residences. Up Church-street I contrived a peep at the old gray tower where the chimes hung; and as we turned the corner a glance at the "Brandon Arms." How very small and low that palatial hostelry of my earlier recollections had grown! There were new faces at the door. It was only two-and-twenty years ago, and I was then but eleven years old. A retrospect of a score of years or so, at three-and-thirty, is a much vaster affair than a much longer one at fifty. The whole thing seemed like yesterday; and as I write, I open my eyes and start and cry, "can it be twenty, five-and-twenty, aye, by Jove! five-and-thirty, years since then?" How my days have flown! And I think when another such yesterday shall have arrived, where shall I be?

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  • Språk:
  • Engelsk
  • ISBN:
  • 9780809593750
  • Bindende:
  • Paperback
  • Sider:
  • 432
  • Utgitt:
  • 1 mars 2004
  • Dimensjoner:
  • 152x229x24 mm.
  • Vekt:
  • 631 g.
  Gratis frakt
Leveringstid: 2-4 uker
Forventet levering: 22 oktober 2024

Beskrivelse av Wylder's Hand

The pretty mill-road, running up through Redman's Dell, dank and dark with tall romantic trees, was left behind in another moment; and we were now traversing the homely and antique street of the little town, with its queer shops and solid steep-roofed residences. Up Church-street I contrived a peep at the old gray tower where the chimes hung; and as we turned the corner a glance at the "Brandon Arms." How very small and low that palatial hostelry of my earlier recollections had grown! There were new faces at the door. It was only two-and-twenty years ago, and I was then but eleven years old. A retrospect of a score of years or so, at three-and-thirty, is a much vaster affair than a much longer one at fifty. The whole thing seemed like yesterday; and as I write, I open my eyes and start and cry, "can it be twenty, five-and-twenty, aye, by Jove! five-and-thirty, years since then?" How my days have flown! And I think when another such yesterday shall have arrived, where shall I be?

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