"Patricia A. McKillip - The House on Parchment Street" - читать интересную книгу автора (McKillip Patricia A)

that you've knocked down a wall to make a hiding place. And somebody put the wall back upтАФif it was
ever down. I don't know." He rubbed his eyes. "Let's talk about something else awhile and maybe we'll
think of something accidentally."
"All right. Alexander has your picture of the flowers. He said he likes it, but he'll give it back to you if
you want it."
In the fading light, she saw his face flush scarlet. He made a sudden movement as if he were going to
rise, but instead he sat quietly, staring out the window. He was silent for a long while. She picked up the
postcard and frowned at it. She began to write. He stirred finally.
"Did you think of something to say?" "Finally. How do you spell Madame Tussaud?" He spelled it for
her. Then he said, "Perhaps you are right. Perhaps the girl was trying to hide Edward from the Puritans
and the man with the sword found his hiding placeтАж . Perhaps Edward was someone she lovedтАФher
brother, orтАФno, she's too young to
have a husband. It was someoneтАФher brother or a cousin or a friend, that she cared about, and she saw
him killed and that's what keeps her coming backтАФ her sadness. She keeps living it all over again."
The next day, during breakfast, the drilling began. It was not loud, but its dull, monotonous persistence
wore away the tranquility of the morning. Uncle Harold endured it with patience, sipping his tea.
"In any society," he said, "there is bound to be a conflict between the people who want to write history,
and those who want to drill drains for soccer players underneath their windows. There must be a happy
meeting-point somewhere, but in this case I think I will yield and go work in the Cambridge library."
"Oh, good," Aunt Catherine said. "I'll go with you and do some shopping."
"Dad," said Bruce.
"Yes."
"I wasтАФI was wondering. Do you have something I could do to earn money? I need tires for my bike
and new paint, and all I've got is nine pence."
Uncle Harold looked at him silently a moment. He put his cup down. "You want to work?"
Bruce flushed. "Yes. Please."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it to sound that way. I was just wondering this morning what we were going to
do for a gardener for the next two weeks, and here you are, practically begging to mow the lawns and
clip the hedges once a week."
Bruce grimaced. But he said, "What happened to the gardener?"
"He's getting married to Miss Morris."
"Miss Morris? At the sweet shop?"
"Yes."
"She's an old lady."
"She is forty-three," Uncle Harold said with dignity. "Remind me to order my coffin at that age. I'll pay
you what I pay the gardenerтАФa pound a week. I had thought of doing it myself, but that side lawn looks
too formidable for my old bones."
"It looks formidable for mine," Bruce said. "But I'll do it. Thanks, Dad." He rose, finishing his orange
juice on the way up. "I'll work on the hedges this morning; there's no sense in cutting the grass before it

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needs it."
Carol found him later, after she finished breakfast. He was trimming the hedge by the gate. The wind,
high that day, snatched the pieces as they fell from the clippers and rolled them down the walk. He put
the clippers down a moment and flexed his fingers.
"Hello. Where are you going?"
"I'm taking this pan back to Emily Raison. She gave Aunt Catherine some tea in it the day I heated the
stove up, and Aunt Catherine forgot to give it back." She swung the pan in an arc that flashed silver in