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Reading books fiction Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself.



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The genre of fiction is interesting to read not only by the process of cognition and the desire to empathize with the fate of the hero, this genre is interesting for the ability to rethink one's own life. Of course the reader may accept the author's point of view or disagree with them, but the reader should understand that the author has done a great job and deserves respect. Take a closer look at genre fiction in all its manifestations in our elibrary.



Read books online » Fiction » The Splendid Spur<br />Being Memoirs of the Adventures of Mr. John Marvel, a Servant of His Late Maj by Arthur Quiller-Couch (the giving tree read aloud .txt) 📖

Book online «The Splendid Spur&lt;br /&gt;Being Memoirs of the Adventures of Mr. John Marvel, a Servant of His Late Maj by Arthur Quiller-Couch (the giving tree read aloud .txt) 📖». Author Arthur Quiller-Couch



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“Now when you spoke of Anthony—a dear lad!—I lay for some time dazed with grief. By little and little, as the truth grew plainer, the pain grew also past bearing. I stood up and stagger'd into the woods to escape it. I went fast and straight, heeding nothing, for at first my senses were all confus'd: but in a while the walking clear'd my wits, and I could think: and thinking, I could weep: and having wept, could fortify my heart. Here is the upshot, sir—tho' 'tis held immodest for a maid to ask even far less of a man. We are both bound for Cornwall—you on an honorable mission, I for my father's estate of Gleys, wherefrom (as your tale proves) some unseen hands are thrusting me. Alike we carry our lives in our hands. You must go forward: I may not go back. For from a King who cannot right his own affairs there is little hope; and in Cornwall I have surer friends than he. Therefore take me, sir—take me for a comrade! Am I sad? Do you fear a weary journey? I will smile—laugh—sing—put sorrow behind me. I will contrive a thousand ways to cheat the milestones. At the first hint of tears, discard me, and go your way with no prick of conscience. Only try me—oh, the shame of speaking thus!”

Her voice had grown more rapid toward the close: and now, breaking off, she put both hands to cover her face, that was hot with blushes. I went over and took them in mine:

“You have made me the blithest man alive,” said I. — She drew back a pace with a frighten'd look, and would have pull'd her hands away.

“Because,” I went on quickly, “you have paid me this high compliment, to trust me. Proud was I to listen to you; and merrily will the miles pass with you for comrade. And so I say—Mistress Killigrew, take me for your servant.”

To my extreme discomposure, as I dropp'd her hands, her eyes were twinkling with laughter.

“Dear now; I see a dull prospect ahead if we use these long titles!”

“But—-”

“Indeed, sir, please yourself. Only as I intend to call you 'Jack' perhaps 'Delia' will be more of a piece than 'Mistress Killigrew.'” She dropp'd me a mock curtsey. “And now, Jack, be a good boy, and hitch me this quilt across the hut. I bought it yesterday at a cottage below here——”

She ended the sentence with the prettiest blush imaginable; and so, having fix'd her screen, we shook hands on our comradeship, and wish'd each other good night.







CHAPTER VIII. — I LOSE THE KING'S LETTER; AND AM CARRIED TO BRISTOL.

Almost before daylight we were afoot, and the first ray of cold sunshine found us stepping from the woods into the plain, where now the snow was vanished and a glistening coat of rime spread over all things. Down here the pines gave way to bare elms and poplars, thickly dotted, and among them the twisting smoke of farmstead and cottage, here and there, and the morning stir of kitchen and stable very musical in the crisp air.

Delia stepped along beside me, humming an air or breaking off to chatter. Meeting us, you would have said we had never a care. The road went stretching away to the northwest and the hills against the sky there; whither beyond, we neither knew nor (being both young, and one, by this time, pretty deep in love) did greatly care. Yet meeting with a waggoner and his team, we drew up to enquire.

The waggoner had a shock of whitish hair and a face purple-red above, by reason of the cold, and purple-black below, for lack of a barber. He purs'd up his mouth and look'd us slowly up and down.

“Come,” said I, “you are not deaf, I hope, nor dumb.”

“Send I may niver!” the fellow ejaculated, slowly and with contemplation: “'tis an unseemly sight, yet tickling to the mirthfully minded. Haw—haw!” He check'd his laughter suddenly and stood like a stone image beside his horses.

“Good sir,” said Delia, laying a hand on my arm (for I was growing nettled), “your mirth is a riddle: but tell us our way and you are free to laugh.”

“Oh, Scarlet—Scarlet!” answer'd he: “and to me, that am a man o' blushes from my cradle!”

Convinced by this that the fellow must be an idiot, I told him so, and left him staring after us; nor heard the sound of his horses moving on again for many minutes.

After this we met about a dozen on the road, and all paus'd to stare. But from one—an old woman—we learn'd we were walking toward Marlboro', and about noon were over the hills and looking into the valley beyond.

'Twas very like the other vale; only a pleasant stream wound along the bottom, by the banks of which the road took us. Here, by a bridge, we came to an inn bearing the sign of “The Broad Face,” and entered: for Captain Settle's stock of victuals was now done. A sour-fac'd woman met us at the door.

“Do you stay here,” Delia advis'd me, “and drink a mug of beer while I bargain with the hostess for fresh food.” She follow'd the sour-fac'd woman into the house.

But out she comes presently with her cheeks flaming and a pair of bright eyes. “Come!” she commanded, “come at once!” Setting down my half emptied mug, I went after her across the bridge and up the road, wondering. In this way we must have walk'd for a mile or more before she turn'd and stamp'd her little foot—

“Horrible!” she cried. “Horrible—wicked—shameful! Ugh!” There were tears in her eyes.

“What is shameful?”

She made no reply, but walk'd on again quickly.

“I am getting hungry, for my part,” sigh'd I, after a little.

“Then you must starve!”

“Oh!”

She wheel'd round again.

“Jack, this will never do. If you are to have a comrade, let it be a boy.”

“Now, I am very passably content as things are.”

“Nonsense: at Marlboro', I mean, you must buy me a suit of boy's clothes. What are you hearkening to?”

“I thought I heard the noise of guns—or is it thunder?”

“Dear Jack, don't say 'tis thunder! I do mortally fear thunder—and mice.”

“'Twouldn't be thunder at this time of year. No, 'tis guns firing.”

“Where?—not that I mind guns.”

“Ahead of us.”

On the far side of the valley we enter'd a wood, thinking by this to shorten our way: for the road here took a long

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