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Owen Turner
Owen Turner

Download Pretty Little Lies Ivy Thorn Epub VERIFIED

He caught himself up at the question and glanced nervously round the room. Hefound something mean in the pretty furniture which he had bought for his houseon the hire system. Annie had chosen it herself and it reminded him of her. Ittoo was prim and pretty. A dull resentment against his life awoke within him.Could he not escape from his little house? Was it too late for him to try tolive bravely like Gallaher? Could he go to London? There was the furniturestill to be paid for. If he could only write a book and get it published, thatmight open the way for him.

Download Pretty Little Lies Ivy Thorn epub

A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun tosnow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquelyagainst the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journeywestward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. Itwas falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills,falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling intothe dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of thelonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thicklydrifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the littlegate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snowfalling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent oftheir last end, upon all the living and the dead.

The place was his very own, for he had unearthed it after ithad been lost for centuries. In a charter in Oseney he had readhow the King of Wessex had given to the Bishop of Winchester apiece of land by Cherwell side, which ran from a certain brook"along the green valley by the two little hills and past thePainted Floor," till it reached a certain thorn patch and acertain spring. The words had fired his fancy. Once the Romanshad strode over these hills, the ruins of their massivecausewayed highroads ran through marsh and forest, they had settheir houses with vines and reaped their harvests where now onlywild beasts rustled. To one like Peter, most of whose wakingthoughts dwelt on Greece and Italy, the notion of suchpredecessors among his familiar fields seemed to link his wildestdreams to the solid world of fact. That Painted Floor must befound, for it could only be a fragment of Roman work; there wassuch a floor in the midget church of Widford on Windrush, a mileor two from the home of his childhood. He knew the green valleyand the little hills of the charter; they lay east from WoodEaton, between the demesne of that manor and the ridge ofStowood. The Romans had been there beyond doubt, for not longsince a ditcher in that very place had turned up a pot of goldcoins with Emperors' heads on them--some were now at Oseney amongthe Abbey's treasures.

A hand was laid on his shoulder as he descended the staircaseinto the July sunlight, and he found Brother Tobias beside him.Brother Tobias was a little lame, and leaned heavily on his armwhile he spoke in his placid cooing way in his ear. BrotherTobias had a very small face, red and rosy and wrinkled like awalnut, and a very long neck, stringy as a hempen rope. Fromearliest days he had been Peter's guardian, patron, father inGod, or whatever title covers the complete oversight of interestsin time and eternity. He had blue eyes a little dim from study,for he was Oseney's chief scholar and accounted a learned Thomistas well as a noted Grecian, but those same eyes saw much thatothers missed, and at moments they could gleam with a secularfire. For Tobias had not always been a churchman; there weretales of a youth spent in camps and courts, for he was come ofhigh stock from Severn side.

Peter finished his duties in the novices' school by an hourafter noon. He visited his attic in St George's College in theCastle. It was very hot, and, since the window opened to thesouth, the little room was like an oven. He looked at hisunslept-in bed, with its mean bedclothes, his shelf of papersweighted by a book or two, the three-legged stool and the ricketytable which were all the furniture, and a pair of blue fliesbuzzing at a broken pane, and the sight did not increase hischeerfulness. Poverty lay like dust over everything. He had meantto give the afternoon to his own studies, to that translation ofa book of Plato into Ciceronian Latin, at which, with a fellow ofCorpus Christi College, he had been for some months at work. Buthe found it impossible. On such a day and in such a mood he wouldgo mad in that stuffy cell. He would go to the library of MertonCollege, where he had permission to read, and look up certainpassages in Diogenes Laerti