She showed him up to the boxroom in the top of the house.

And you should probably use the facilities. There was a drawing of the young man below that. It was milkily translucent, and deep inside it flecks of silver glittered and glinted in the late-afternoon sunlight. Then she went next door to the butcher’s and bought herself a nice piece of liver. “Actually,” said Mrs. Whitaker, “on second thoughts, I think I’ll just have the book.”. He drew it from his pouch, and gave it to her. For dinner that evening she had the liver fried in breadcrumbs with onions. She poured herself another cup of tea, and cried quietly into a Kleenex, while the sound of hoofbeats echoed down Hawthorne Crescent. Mrs. Whitaker put the ruby fruit down on her kitchen table. “That’s nice,” said Mrs. Whitaker. They talked about Myron and Bernice, and Mrs. Whitaker’s nephew Ronald (she had had no children), and about their friend Mrs. Perkins who was in hospital with her hip, poor dear. “I rather like it there. “Well,” she said, “now you’re here, you might as well make yourself useful.” On Tuesday the postman called.

Her local church was St. James the Less, which was a little more “Don’t think of this as a church, think of it as a place where like-minded friends hang out and are joyful” than Mrs. Whitaker felt entirely comfortable with, but she liked the vicar, the Reverend Bartholomew, when he wasn’t actually playing the guitar. It was a sword, its blade almost four feet long. Then the horse and the knight trotted off down Hawthorne Crescent. I’m simply not interested.” She paid her five pence for the novel, and put the lamp back where she had found it, in the back of the shop. Galaad sat down at the kitchen table.

That afternoon she took the bus down to the hospital to see Mrs. Perkins, who was still in with her hip, poor love.

She took the book and the silver container up to the woman on the till.

He was giving the neighborhood children rides on Grizzel’s back, up and down the street. She told him how she had met Henry during the war, when he was in the ARP and she hadn’t closed the kitchen blackout curtains all the way; and about the sixpenny dances they went to in the town; and how they’d gone to London when the war had ended, and she’d had her first drink of wine. He picked up the leather package from the floor, put it down on her tablecloth and unwrapped it. 33–47. “That is the Egg of the Phoenix,” said Galaad.

He hugged her, and she shooed him out of the kitchen, and out of the back door, and she shut the door behind him. “And that’s all I have brought for you,” said Galaad. Mrs. Whitaker made him some cream cheese and cucumber sandwiches for the journey back and wrapped them in greaseproof paper.

She cut some parsley for the salad.

Mrs. Whitaker took her some homemade fruitcake, although she had left out the walnuts from the recipe, because Mrs. Perkins’s. She moved a rather threadbare fur coat, which smelled badly of mothballs. She selected two tall glasses. Our Myron got one just like that when he won the swimming tournament, only it’s got his name on the side.”, “Is he still with that nice girl? She took a blue plastic basin from under the sink and half-filled it with water. “Tea? Mrs. Whitaker washed it out with great care, then left it to soak for an hour in warm water with a dash of vinegar added. It looked a little like a flattened, elongated teapot. “Sixty-five pee, dear,” said the woman, picking up the silver object, staring at it. She knew that it was unwise to let unidentified strangers into your home when you were elderly and living on your own. “That is the Philosopher’s Stone, which our forefather Noah hung in the Ark to give light when there was no light; it can transform base metals into gold; and it has certain other properties,” Galaad told her proudly. She poured them both cups of tea, after getting out the very best china, which was only for special occasions. They’re thinking of getting engaged,” said Mrs. Greenberg.

When she got home, Galaad was waiting for her. She paid her five pence for the novel, and put the lamp back where she had found it, in the back of the shop.

He picked up the leather package from the floor, put it down on her tablecloth, and unwrapped it.

“I’ve got some cases that need moving.”. “Actually,” said Mrs. Whitaker, “on second thoughts, I think I’ll just have the book.”. “Oh. She was standing up straighter as well, Mrs. Whitaker noted approvingly. She stood up, rather slowly, and took off her gardening gloves.

Mrs. Whitaker made him some cream cheese and cucumber sandwiches for the journey back and wrapped them in greaseproof paper. Galaad beamed. Now, give me that, and I’ll wrap it up for you.”. “It’s very nice,” she said. “Is he still with that nice girl? Her local church was St. James the Less, which was a little more “Don’t think of this as a church, think of it as a place where like-minded friends hang out and are joyful” than Mrs. Whitaker felt entirely comfortable with, but she liked the vicar, the Reverend Bartholomew, when he wasn’t actually playing the guitar. Later, at the Crucifixion, it caught His precious blood when the centurion’s spear pierced His side.”



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