Nobody could guess; only she knew; only she could know, because she was the great-grand-daughter of the man himself
Why are they?
”No, no, no,” she protested. He had told her the story. What story? If they liked, she would try to tell it. There was still time before the play.
”But where do I begin?” she pondered. ”In the year 1820. It must have been about then that my greatgrandfather was a boy. I’m not young myself ”-no, but she was very well set up and handsome-”and he was a very old man when I was a child-when he told me the story. A very handsome old man, with a shock of white hair, and blue eyes. He must have been a beautiful boy. But queer. That was only natural,” she explained, ”seeing how they lived. The name was Comber. They’d come down in the world. They’d been gentlefolk; they’d owned land up in Yorkshire. But when he was a boy only the tower was left. The house was nothing but a little farmhouse, standing in the middle of fields. We saw it ten years ago and went over it. We had to leave the car and walk across the fields. There isn’t any road to the house. It stands all alone, the grass grows right up to the gate. there were chickens pecking about, running in and out of the rooms. All gone to rack and ruin. I remember a stone fell from the tower suddenly.” She paused. ”There they lived,” she went on, ”the old man, the woman and the boy. She wasn’t his wife, or the boy’s mother. She was just a farm hand, a girl the old man had taken to live with him when his wife died. Another reason perhaps why nobody visited them-why the whole place was gone to rack and ruin. But I remember a coat of arms over the door; and books, old books, gone mouldy. He taught himself all he knew from books. Fortsätt läsa Nobody could guess; only she knew; only she could know, because she was the great-grand-daughter of the man himself