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Ania z Zielonego Wzgórza: Anne of Green Gables, Polish edition - Kindle edition by Lucy Maud Montgomery. Download it once and read it on your Kindle device. Ania z Zielonego Wzgórza [Lucy Maud Montgomery] on hamhillfort.info *FREE* a Kindle? Get your Kindle here, or download a FREE Kindle Reading App. EPUB, MOBI. Wypróbuj 7 dni za darmo lub kup teraz do %! Ania z Zielonego Wzgórza - Lucy Maud Montgomery - ebook + audiobook. Anne of Green.
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Its ghost appeared Banquo-like at every subsequent family feast. Oh, yes, Valancy knew exactly what the picnic would be like and she blessed the rain that had saved her from it.
There would be no picnic this year. If Aunt Wellington could not celebrate on the sacred day itself she would have no celebration at all.
Thank whatever gods there were for that. But certainly Foster seems to know all there is to know about them. Valancy had read it four times — she knew whole passages off by heart. And — she almost thought she would go and see Dr. Trent about that queer pain around the heart. But could she go to him without telling any one?
THEN, they went to Dr. But Valancy disliked Dr. Ambrose Marsh. And, besides, she could not get to Port Lawrence, fifteen miles away, without being taken there. She did not want any one to know about her heart. She felt quite sure there was nothing at all seriously wrong with her heart and no need of all the pother that would ensue if she mentioned it. She would just slip up quietly and see Dr.
Trent that very day. As for his bill, she had the two hundred dollars that her father had put in the bank for her the day she was born, but she would secretly take out enough to pay Dr. She was never allowed to use even the interest of this. Trent was over seventy and there had been rumours that he meant to retire soon. None of the Stirling clan had ever gone to him since he had told Cousin Gladys, ten years before, that her neuritis was all imaginary and that she enjoyed it.
When cousin Stickles knocked at her door, Valancy knew it was half- past seven and she must get up. As long as she could remember, Cousin Stickles had knocked at her door at half-past seven. Cousin Stickles and Mrs. Valancy got up, though she hated getting up more this morning than ever she had before. What was there to get up for? Another dreary day like all the days that had preceded it, full of meaningless little tasks, joyless and unimportant, that benefited nobody.
Anne of Green Gables by L. M. Montgomery - Free Ebook
Hard and fast times for meals were the rule in Mrs. Breakfast at eight, dinner at one, supper at six, year in and year out. No excuses for being late were ever tolerated.
So up Valancy got, shivering. The house would be cold all day. It was one of Mrs. Meals were cooked on the little oil-stove in the back porch. And though May might be icy and October frost-bitten, no fires were lighted until the twenty-first of October by the calendar. On the twenty-first of October Mrs. Valancy took off and hung up in the closet her nightdress of coarse, unbleached cotton, with high neck and long, tight sleeves. Of late years she had fallen into the habit of doing her hair with the shade of the window by the looking-glass pulled down.
The lines on her face did not show so plainly then. The result was rather dreadful. Apart from her eyes she was neither pretty nor ugly — just insignificant-looking, she concluded bitterly. How plain the lines around her eyes and mouth were in that merciless light!
And never had her narrow, white face looked so narrow and so white. Pompadours had long gone out of fashion, but they had been in when Valancy first put her hair up and Aunt Wellington had decided that she must always wear her hair so.
Anne of Avonlea by L. M. Montgomery
Valancy had hankered to do her hair pulled low on her forehead, with puffs above the ears, as Olive was wearing hers. But then, there were so many things Valancy never dared do.
All her life she had been afraid of something, she thought bitterly. From the very dawn of recollection, when she had been so horribly afraid of the big black bear that lived, so Cousin Stickles told her, in the closet under the stairs. Fear — fear — fear — she could never escape from it.
Only in her Blue Castle could she find temporary release. She would never be able to find it again. Twenty-nine, unmarried, undesired—what had she to do with the fairy-like chatelaine of the Blue Castle? She would cut such childish nonsense out of her life forever and face reality unflinchingly.
She turned from her unfriendly mirror and looked out. That was just the trouble. Her brief bitterness had passed. She accepted facts as resignedly as she had always accepted them.
She was one of the people whom life always passes by. There was no altering that fact. Breakfast was always the same. Oatmeal porridge, which Valancy loathed, toast and tea, and one teaspoonful of marmalade.
Frederick thought two teaspoonfuls extravagant — but that did not matter to Valancy, who hated marmalade, too. The chilly, gloomy little dining-room was chillier and gloomier than usual; the rain streamed down outside the window; departed Stirlings, in atrocious, gilt frames, wider than the pictures, glowered down from the walls.
And yet Cousin Stickles wished Valancy many happy returns of the day!
Valancy sat up straight. She talked to her mother and Cousin Stickles of the things they always talked of.
She never wondered what would happen if she tried to talk of something else. She knew. Therefore she never did it. But Christine Stickles whined endlessly on as usual, complaining about everything — the weather, the leak in the pantry, the price of oatmeal and butter — Valancy felt at once she had buttered her toast too lavishly — the epidemic of mumps in Deerwood.
Valancy had never had mumps — or whooping cough — orchicken-pox—or measles — or anything she should have had — nothing but horrible colds every winter. Nothing, it seemed, could prevent her from catching them. Frederick and Cousin Stickles did their heroic best. One winter they kept Valancy housed up from November to May, in the warm sitting-room. She was not even allowed to go to church.
And Valancy took cold after cold and ended up with bronchitis in June. She had endured it for twenty-nine years, and all at once she felt she could not endure it any longer. Her full name was Valancy Jane. Valancy Jane was rather terrible, but she liked Valancy, with its odd, out-land tang. She had been told that her maternal grandfather, old Amos Wansbarra, had chosen the name for her. Her father had tacked on the Jane by way of civilising it, and the whole connection got out of the difficulty by nicknaming her Doss.
She never got Valancy from any one but outsiders. Frederick looked at her daughter in astonishment. Well, it should suit YOU then. You are childish enough in all conscience, my dear child. Valancy looked at them furtively. At twenty she might have been quite pretty. But Cousin Stickles! And even yet Cousin Stickles was necessary to Mrs.
Valancy wondered pitifully what it would be like to be wanted by some one — needed by some one. No one in the whole world needed her, or would miss anything from life if she dropped suddenly out of it. No one loved her. It rained all the forenoon without cessation. Valancy hated piecing quilts. And there was no need of it.
The house was full of quilts. There were three big chests, packed with quilts, in the attic. Frederick had begun storing away quilts when Valancy was seventeen and she kept on storing them, though it did not seem likely that Valancy would ever need them.
But Valancy must be at work and fancy work materials were too expensive. On Sundays her mother made her tot them up and pray over them. On this particular forenoon of this day of destiny Valancy spent only ten minutes in idleness. At least, Mrs. Frederick and Cousin Stickles would have called it idleness.
An occasional saunter through them, keeping to the well-trodden paths, will never admit us to their intimacy. If we wish to be friends we must seek them out and win them by frequent, reverent visits at all hours; by morning, by noon, and by night; and at all seasons, in spring, in summer, in autumn, in winter.
Otherwise we can never really know them and any pretence we may make to the contrary will never impose on them. It is of no use to seek the woods from any motive except sheer love of them; they will find us out at once and hide all their sweet, old-world secrets from us. But if they know we come to them because we love them they will be very kind to us and give us such treasures of beauty and delight as are not bought or sold in any market-place.
For the woods, when they give at all, give unstintedly and hold nothing back from their true worshippers. We must go to them lovingly, humbly, patiently, watchfully, and we shall learn what poignant lovelinesslurks in the wild places and silent intervales, lying under starshine and sunset, what cadences of unearthly music are harped on aged pine boughs or crooned in copses of fir, what delicate savoursexhale frommosses andferns in sunny corners or on damp brooklands, what dreams and myths and legends of an older time haunt them.
Then the immortal heart of the woods will beat against ours and its subtle life will steal into ourveins and make us its own forever, so that no matter where we go or how widely we wander we shall yet be drawn back to the forest to find our most enduringkinship. Valancy did not know much about woods—except the haunted groves of oak and pine around her Blue Castle. At noon it stopped raining, but the sun did not come out until three. Then Valancy timidly said she thought she would go uptown.
It cannot possibly have been more than two weeks. You waste too much time reading. They argued the matter for ten minutes longer and finally Mrs. Frederick agreed rather grudgingly that Valancy might go. Valancy went, though nobody will ever know just how near she came to hurling therubber-plant into the street before she went. She hated that grey flannel petticoat more than any other garment she owned.
Olive never had to wear flannel petticoats. Olive wore ruffled silk and sheerlawn andfilmylacedflounces. So there you were.
But Valancy was gone. She turned at the corner and looked back down the ugly, prim, respectable street where she lived. About it was the desolate, barren peace of an old house whose life is lived. Clayton Markley had built it for his bride. He was to be married to Jennie Lloyd in June.
The little house, it was said, was furnished from attic to cellar, in complete readiness for its mistress. She envied Jennie Lloyd more fiercely than ever today. Jennie was not so much better looking than she was, and not so very much younger.