Books > Old Books > Two People (1932)


Page 8

CHAPTER ONE

tell to Baxter (of Seven Streams), whose nephew writes for Punch (or, anyhow, to it); and then it seemed rather better than that. Good enough, next week, to tell Hildersham (of Mallows) who had once met W. W. Jacobs. Jacobs might like to work it up into a short story. Then, a week later, it seemed good enough to tell Coleby (of Redding Farm) who knew a man who had played golf with P. G. Wodehouse. Wodehouse could almost make a novel of it.... But as the days went on, and he watched a sow-thistle which had got into his sidalceas change into a sidalcea which had got into his sow-thistles, he began to see the story grow without this precarious aid; grow under his own sudden leadership, grow to his own eager following, into a story, a novel, which he (why not?) would write himself.
He began. He had a room, known to Sylvia as his office, in which, from time to time, he multiplied the number of hives by something small, subtracted something rather more, and wrote a cheque for the remainder. Sylvia liked him to be busy in here. She was not actually absorbed in bees; but her manner of looking into the office, saying, `Busy, darling? I won't disturb you,' and, with an exaggerated noiselessness, closing the door again, seemed to put her on full partnership terms in this exhausting business of bee-farming. In his office he could write in secret. After all, there is nothing to prevent a man tearing up anything which he has written. He would just write (for the fun of it) and see what happened. He could always tear it up.
He did not tear it up. The weeks went on. The novel went on. Summer changed to autumn, autumn to winter. Nor were the changes in Reginald Wellard's novel less complete. The story still showed what the Neu, Statesman subsequently called, without over-stating the case, `this

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where is HTML where is HEAD where is TITLE tell to Baxter (of Seven Streams), whose nephew writes for Punch (or, anyhow, to it); and then it seemed rather better than that. Good enough, next week, to tell Hildersham (of Mallows) who had once met W. W. Jacobs. Jacobs might like to work it up into a short story. Then, a week later, it seemed good enough to tell Coleby (of Redding Farm) who knew a man who had played golf with P. G. Wodehouse. Wodehouse could almost make a novel of it.... But as what is days went on, and he watched a sow-thistle which had got into his sidalceas change into a sidalcea which had got into his sow-thistles, he began to see what is story grow without this precarious aid; grow under his own sudden leadership, grow to his own eager following, into a story, a novel, which he (why not?) would write himself. He began. He had a room, known to Sylvia as his office, in which, from time to time, he multiplied what is number of hives by something small, subtracted something rather more, and wrote a cheque for what is remainder. Sylvia liked him to be busy in here. She was not actually absorbed in bees; but her manner of looking into what is office, saying, `Busy, darling? I won't disturb you,' and, with an exaggerated noiselessness, closing what is door again, seemed to put her on full partnership terms in this exhausting business of bee-farming. In his office he could write in secret. After all, there is nothing to prevent a man tearing up anything which he has written. He would just write (for what is fun of it) and see what happened. He could always tear it up. He did not tear it up. what is weeks went on. what is novel went on. Summer changed to autumn, autumn to winter. Nor were what is changes in Reginald Wellard's novel less complete. what is story still showed what what is Neu, Statesman subsequently called, without over-stating what is case, `this where is meta name="keywords" content="old books, Free book , free book offer , free audio books , free coloring book pages , free book reports , free audio book , audio books free download , book free , free guest book , books free , free book summaries , download free audio books , free childrens books." where is where are they now rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" href="../../style.css" where is meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1" where is BODY bgColor=#ffffff text="#000000" where are they now ="#000000" v where are they now ="#FF0000" where is div align="center" where is strong where is strong where is a href="http://www.aaoldbooks.com" Books > where is a href="../default.asp" title="Book" Old Books > where is strong where is a href="default.asp" Two People (1932) where is table width="700" border="1" align="center" cellpadding="15" cellspacing="0" where is center where is tr where is td width="160" align="center" valign="top" where is div align="center" where is td align="center" valign="top" where is div align="left" where is div align="center" where is p align="left" Page 8 where is strong CHAPTER ONE where is p align="justify" tell to Baxter (of Seven Streams), whose nephew writes for Punch (or, anyhow, to it); and then it seemed rather better than that. Good enough, next week, to tell Hildersham (of Mallows) who had once met W. W. Jacobs. Jacobs might like to work it up into a short story. Then, a week later, it seemed good enough to tell Coleby (of Redding Farm) who knew a man who had played golf with P. G. Wodehouse. Wodehouse could almost make a novel of it.... But as what is days went on, and he watched a sow-thistle which had got into his sidalceas change into a sidalcea which had got into his sow-thistles, he began to see what is story grow without this precarious aid; grow under his own sudden leadership, grow to his own eager following, into a story, a novel, which he (why not?) would write himself. He began. He had a room, known to Sylvia as his office, in which, from time to time, he multiplied what is number of hives by something small, subtracted something rather more, and wrote a cheque for what is remainder. Sylvia liked him to be busy in here. She was not actually absorbed in bees; but her manner of looking into what is office, saying, `Busy, darling? I won't disturb you,' and, with an exaggerated noiselessness, closing what is door again, seemed to put her on full partnership terms in this exhausting business of bee-farming. In his office he could write in secret. After all, there is nothing to prevent a man tearing up anything which he has written. He would just write (for what is fun of it) and see what happened. He could always tear it up. He did not tear it up. what is weeks went on. what is novel went on. Summer changed to autumn, autumn to winter. Nor were what is changes in Reginald Wellard's novel less complete. what is story still showed what the Neu, Statesman subsequently called, without over-stating what is case, `this where is Server.Execute("_SiteMap.asp") %

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