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Title details for Monday or Tuesday by Virginia Woolf - Available

Monday or Tuesday

by Virginia Woolf
ebook
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From the book:
Whatever hour you woke there was a door shunting. From room to room they went, hand in hand, lifting here, opening there, making sure - a ghostly couple. “Here we left it,” she said. And he added, “Oh, but here too!” “It’s upstairs,” she murmured. “And in the garden,” he whispered “Quietly,” they said, “or we shall wake them.” But it wasn’t that you woke us. Oh, no. “They’re looking for it; they’re drawing the curtain,” one might say, and so read on a page or two. “Now they’ve found it,” one would be certain, stopping the pencil on the margin. And then, tired of reading, one might rise and see for oneself, the house all empty, the doors standing open, only the wood pigeons bubbling with content and the hum of the threshing machine sounding from the farm. “What did I come in here for? What did I want to find?” My hands were empty. “Perhaps it’s upstairs then?” The apples were in the loft. And so down again, the garden still as ever, only the book had slipped into the grass.
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Publisher: 1st World Library

OverDrive Read

  • ISBN: 159540399X
  • Release date: February 1, 2006

PDF ebook

  • ISBN: 159540399X
  • File size: 399 KB
  • Release date: February 1, 2006

Formats

OverDrive Read
PDF ebook

subjects

Classic Literature Fiction

Languages

English

From the book:
Whatever hour you woke there was a door shunting. From room to room they went, hand in hand, lifting here, opening there, making sure - a ghostly couple. “Here we left it,” she said. And he added, “Oh, but here too!” “It’s upstairs,” she murmured. “And in the garden,” he whispered “Quietly,” they said, “or we shall wake them.” But it wasn’t that you woke us. Oh, no. “They’re looking for it; they’re drawing the curtain,” one might say, and so read on a page or two. “Now they’ve found it,” one would be certain, stopping the pencil on the margin. And then, tired of reading, one might rise and see for oneself, the house all empty, the doors standing open, only the wood pigeons bubbling with content and the hum of the threshing machine sounding from the farm. “What did I come in here for? What did I want to find?” My hands were empty. “Perhaps it’s upstairs then?” The apples were in the loft. And so down again, the garden still as ever, only the book had slipped into the grass.
Expand title description text
Classic Literature Fiction