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By Virginia Woolf

Virginia Woolf’s purpose to put up her brief tales is performed during this quantity, posthumously accumulated via her husband, Leonard Woolf. Containing six of 8 tales from Monday or Tuesday, seven that seemed in magazines, and 5 different tales, the booklet makes on hand Virginia Woolf’s shorter works of fiction. Foreword through Leonard Woolf.

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A Haunted House and Other Short Stories

Virginia Woolf’s goal to post her brief tales is performed during this quantity, posthumously gathered by way of her husband, Leonard Woolf. Containing six of 8 tales from Monday or Tuesday, seven that seemed in magazines, and 5 different tales, the ebook makes on hand Virginia Woolf’s shorter works of fiction.

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Plate–glass windows. Carnations; chrysanthemums. Ivy in dark gardens. Milk carts at the door. Wherever I go, mysterious figures, I see you, turning the corner, mothers and sons; you, you, you. I hasten, I follow. This, I fancy, must be the sea. Grey is the landscape; dim as ashes; the water murmurs and moves. If I fall on my knees, if I go through the ritual, the ancient antics, it’s you, unknown figures, you I adore; if I open my arms, it’s you I embrace, you I draw to me—adorable world! The String Quartet Well, here we are, and if you cast your eye over the room you will see that Tubes and trams and omnibuses, private carriages not a few, even, I venture to believe, landaus with bays in them, have been busy at it, weaving threads from one end of London to the other.

Come in, Minnie. ” So they go into the dining–room. ” Slowly the knives and forks sink from the upright. Down they get (Bob and Barbara), hold out hands stiffly; back again to their chairs, staring between the resumed mouthfuls. [But this we’ll skip; ornaments, curtains, trefoil china plate, yellow oblongs of cheese, white squares of biscuit—skip—oh, but wait! Half–way through luncheon one of those shivers; Bob stares at her, spoon in mouth. “Get on with your pudding, Bob;” but Hilda disapproves.

She rubbed as if she would rub something out for ever—some stain, some indelible contamination. Indeed, the spot remained for all her rubbing, and back she sank with the shudder and the clutch of the arm I had come to expect. Something impelled me to take my glove and rub my window. There, too, was a little speck on the glass. For all my rubbing it remained. And then the spasm went through me I crooked my arm and plucked at the middle of my back. My skin, too, felt like the damp chicken’s skin in the poulterer’s shop–window; one spot between the shoulders itched and irritated, felt clammy, felt raw.

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