". . . in fact the few pieces of old furniture gleamed like satin, and the red carpet was well brushed. The panelled walls were painted a strange bluish-green, and instead of pictures, there were vases of white Italian pottery hanging at internals, filled with bouquets of violets and white hyacinths which deliciously scented the warm. A low fire burnt in the basket-grate, but Margaret thought that the house was centrally heated. The one tall window, at which hung curtains of yellow Chinese brocade, looked over a gravel yard with a fountain in the middle and some bushes of Portugal laurel in blue tubs, but beyond this, as is often the case in Hampstead, there was a dismal view of blank walls and ugly roofs. The red carpet, on which toys were scattered, fitted closely to the wainscoting, and there were no draughts; the children, the many books on their white shelves, and the luxurious flowers silently breathing forth their perfume seemed enclosed in a hushed ,warm cavern hollowed from some deeply coloured jewel, while the chilly world of autumn sunlight outside seemed unreal."
Westwood by Stella Gibbons
I've been reading my slow, delicious way through a stack of Stella Gibbons' novels that Rebecca loaned me. Gibbons has written lots more than Cold Comfort Farm, which is what most American readers are familiar with.
Genevieve is currently gulping down Nancy Drews, Ben is tearing through the Boxcar Children and The Great Brain books, and our read-aloud is Hitty by Rachel Field. We've been going to the library at least once a week - we love to read!