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A big variety of genres offers in worldlibraryebook.com. Today we will discuss romance as one of the types books, which are very popular and interesting first of all for girls. They like to dream about their romantic future rendezvous, about kisses under the stars and many flowers. Girls are gentle, soft and sweet. In their minds everything is perfect. The ocean, white sand, burning sunā€¦.He and she are enjoying each other.
Nowadays we are so lacking in love and romantic deeds. This electronic library will fill our needs with books by different authors.


What is Romance?


Reading books RomanceReading books romantic stories you will plunge into the world of feelings and love. Most of the time the story ends happily. Very interesting and informative to read books historical romance novels to feel the atmosphere of that time.
In this genre the characters can be both real historical figures and the author's imagination. Thanks to such historical romantic novels, you can see another era through the eyes of eyewitnesses.
Critics will say that romance is too predictable. That if you know how it ends, thereā€™s no point in reading it. Sorry, but no. Itā€™s okay to choose between genres to get what you need from your books. But in romance the happy ending is a feature.Itā€™s so romantic to describe the scene when you have found your True Love like in ā€œfairytale love story.ā€




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Read books online Ā» Romance Ā» An Unknown Lover by Mrs George de Horne Vaizey (hardest books to read TXT) šŸ“–

Book online Ā«An Unknown Lover by Mrs George de Horne Vaizey (hardest books to read TXT) šŸ“–Ā». Author Mrs George de Horne Vaizey



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comes along. Thereā€™s no greater mistake than to believe that any work can be done the better for deliberately closing the shutters on all other claims. You have a duty to yourself, as well as to that precious Martin, and it is even conceivable that he might fare the better for a little less attention!

ā€œSo far as I have gathered facts from Dorothea, Martin lost his wife eight years ago. She was his wife for six short months, and she has been dead eight years. He was a boy at that time; since then he has grown into a man, and a reputation. The Martin who came to you in his grief, and to whom you mortgaged your life, is dead too; as dead as the poor little wife! So long as he was alive, you were a big help to him. He was miserable enough no doubt, poor beggar, but the last extremity of despair was spared him by your love and care. Iā€™d swear to that! But that Martin died, and with him your power.

ā€œThus far, and no farther! Thereā€™s a wall, Katrine, between the soul of every brother and sister who was ever created, and sooner or later they come up against it. All the love, and the care, and the patience, and the trying and crying can never scale it. And then one day comes along a vagrant who doesnā€™t cry, doesnā€™t try, perhaps doesnā€™t even care, and before that stranger is an open road. Which is a mystery, dear, and a commonplace. Likewise cussedly unfair.

ā€œDo you mind if I call you ā€˜dearā€™? Itā€™s only on paper, and itā€™s so long since Iā€™ve had any one to endear. It takes off a bit of the loneliness to feel that there is some one in the world to whom one can occasionally show a glimpse of oneā€™s heart. Itā€™s the only bit of me that has a chance of feeling cold out hereā€”but itā€™s petrifying fast enough. If you object, if it shocks your sense of decorum, well!ā€”Iā€™ll write it all the same, but Iā€™ll blot it out afterwards. You neednā€™t know anything about it. Pens will blot on this thin paper!

ā€œDonā€™t worry yourself because you are not the world and all to Martin. He would be an odd fellow if you were. Itā€™s not in nature that a sister should satisfy a manā€™s heart, and itā€™s no use bucking against nature. Neither need you worry because of his discontent. If youā€™d ever suffered from a big wound, youā€™d understand that at the first, one is numbed by the shock; itā€™s only when the knitting up and rebuilding begin that the pain bites deep. Look upon his restlessness and depression as growing pains, and the beginning of his cure. Poor little Katrine! but this sort of thing is confoundedly hard on the looker-on.

ā€œYou want to know about myselfā€”and why your eyes look sorry as they watch me turn out on my lone. Well, you know, Katrineā€”I amā€”I was, thirty-five last birthday; only child, parents gone, relations scattered, strangers to me in all but name. Outside the regiment there is not a soul to count in my life, and at the end of four years, unless the impossible happens, I must leave the regiment and say good-bye to my friends. They offered me a majority in the Blankshire a year ago, but I couldnā€™t bring myself to face the wrench, but as anything is preferable to idleness and the shelf, I shall have to start life again among strangers before Iā€™m forty, with two or three captain fellows swearing vengeance at me for being promoted over their heads! Itā€™s not exactly a glowing vista, and the prospect of that forty makes a man think. When he sits alone on a sweltering Indian night, and compares his lot with that of fellows like Middleton, for instance, it is depressing work!

ā€œIn one or other department of life a man must have success, if he is to know content. Work counts for a lot, but it must be successful work to make up a whole. A big career appeals to all menā€”the sense of power, the consciousness that one particular bit of the worldā€™s work depends upon him, and would suffer from his absence, but that sort of success hasnā€™t come my way. Itā€™s the jolliest regiment in the world, the best set of fellows, but itā€™s been our luck to be ā€˜out of things,ā€™ and we are hopelessly blocked.

ā€œThen thereā€™s the home department! Middleton (I use him as a type) can never ask himself ā€˜what is the good,ā€™ while he has his wife and that stunning little lad. He has his depressed moods like the rest, but when they come on, Dorothea makes love to him, and the little chap sits on his knee. At such times any nice feeling young photograph ought to sympathise with a lonely fellow who sits by andā€”looks on!

ā€œWhat do you suppose made up my last Christmas mail? A bill from the stores, and a picture postcard from an old nurse. This year thereā€™ll be a letter from you! I have theories about Christmas lettersā€”especially Christmas letters to fellows abroad. Christmas is a time of special kindliness and love; people who are as a rule most reserved and dignified let themselves go, and show what is in their hearts. Iā€™ve a fancy just for once to ā€˜pittendā€™ as the children say, and write a real Christmassy letter. A fellow in the regimentā€”Vincentā€”is just engaged. He met her when he went to Sā€” for his last leave. Prom his descriptions you would imagine she was another Helen of Troy, but Iā€™m told sheā€™s quite an ordinary nice girl. The airs he gives himself! A fellow might never have been engaged before. After listening to him steadily for two hours on end the other night, I ventured one on my own account.

ā€œā€˜I wonder,ā€™ I said tentatively, ā€˜if any girl will ever care enough to be willing to be engaged to me?ā€™

ā€œHe ruminated, and sucked his pipe: ā€˜Well,ā€™ he said slowly, ā€˜youā€™re not such a bad old beast!ā€™

ā€œRather beastly of me all the same to bore you with all this. Forgive me! As Vincent has appointed me his confidant I hear such a lot about the affair that I turned on to it without thinking... The wedding wonā€™t come off for another year. When Iā€™m engaged, Iā€™ll be married sharp!

ā€œNow hereā€™s a subject for discussing in your next letterā€”Love and marriage! Itā€™s a big bill, andā€”be discursive, please! You canā€™t possibly discuss such questions on one sheet. We know, of course, that you are never to many. You are doomed to dry-nurse Martin for life, whether he wants you or no. (Brutal! Sorry, dear!) Things being as they are at the moment, we may premise that I also am doomed to celibacy, but as onlookers see most of the game, thereā€™s no reason why we shouldnā€™t wag our heads together over the follies of lovers, and expatiate on how much better we should have managed things ourselves.

ā€œThereā€™s no Cranford reason, I suppose, why a young female should not discuss these things with a person of the opposite sex? Even vowed to celibacy as you are, I expect there are moments when you have dreamed dreams, and seen as in a vision the not impossible He.

ā€œTell me about him, Katrine! Iā€™ve a fancy to hear.

ā€œNow the sort of girl I should choose... But this scrawl is too long already. That must keep for another day.

ā€œSalaams!

ā€œJim Blair.ā€

Chapter Nine.

ā€œCumly, July 10, 19ā€”.

ā€œDear Captain Blair,

ā€œIā€™m in a grumbly mood this morning. Do you mind? Something annoyed me yesterday, and this is the lachrymose aftermath. Iā€™m sorry, for your sake as well as my own, for itā€™s mail day, and itā€™s now or never to catch that birthday! Perhaps a morningā€™s writing will work it ā€˜offā€™ better than any other distraction which this place affords. Itā€™s easy for you away at the other side of the world to sentimentalise over my ā€˜Cranfordā€™ home, but if I had been asked to state the spot of all others in which I would not choose to live, it would be just such a derelict little hamlet as that in which fate has dumped me. Itā€™s a pretty little place, built on the side of a hill, with a precipitous High Street which is dangerous to drive down, and puffy to walk up. There is a church at the top, a chapel at the bottom, and a bank half-way; likewise a linen draperā€™s shop, which serves the purpose of a ladyā€™s club, for no self-respecting woman allows a morning to pass without popping in at ā€˜Verneyā€™s.ā€™ If the stock does not supply what one wants (it rarely does!) there is always ā€˜a startling lineā€™ in something else, and a smell of flannel thrown in. ā€˜We are out of white gloves this morning, but I have a very fine line in unbleached calico!ā€™ Mr Verney is a deacon of the chapel; Mrs Verney was in the millinery, and has hankerings after the church. We notice a general tendency among the maidens of dissent to appear at the parish church, what time they possess new garments or hats... After we have bought our packets of needles, or a box of pins, we meet our friends in the front shop, and gossip. Such a lot of talk, about such little, little things! There are days when itā€™s amusing enough; days when itā€™s the driest dust. Last year a friend of mine started a ā€˜Thankfulness Society,ā€™ as a cure for the grumbling and discontent which is apt to engulf spinsters in a country place. Each member was presented with a little book, and was bound to inscribe therein the special causes of thankfulness which had occurred during each day. I refused to join. I said if I ceased to grumble it would have a demoralising effect on my character. No use to grumble? Fiddlesticks! Every use! As a dear old American friend used to say: ā€˜When you feel like scratching, itā€™s not a mite of use rolling your eyes, and trying to be a saintā€”just let yourself go, and be right down ugly for a few minutes, and it will be a heap better for you, and every one concerned!ā€™ The secretary was shocked. She said if one realised oneā€™s blessings, one would not wish to grumble... I said that considered as a trial the grumbler was not in it, compared with the persistent optimist. Nothing on earth is more embittering than to live with a persistently amiable person. Imagine living with a certificated optimist bound over to be thankful through thick and thin, when the soot falls, the soup is singed, and the new dress does not come home! ... Imagine the conversation, the maddening serenity of the smile! Optimists are admirable in calamity, but in the simple aggravations of daily life they are just the most depressing creatures upon earth!

ā€œWell, Iā€™m sorry! Now Iā€™ve had my growl, and (Yankee again!) feel as ā€˜good as pie,ā€™ You might as well know what a grumbling, discontented wretch I am, and if you ask me why this special fit attacked me just this special morning, well, I know, but Iā€™m not going to tell. Iā€™ll answer another question insteadā€”

ā€œYou ask me what I think about love, getting engaged, married, all the rest of it. I am only a looker on, and must always be, but it does interest me all the same! I have marvelled with every one else over the nature of that indefinable something which draws two people together, and which has nothing on earth to do with suitability as understood by the people. John may be a model of excellence; amiable, rich, handsome, devoted, but on their first meeting it is settled in Louisaā€™s mind as irrevocably as the trump of doom that he would never do! She knew it at a flash, the moment he

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