Amy Snow Read Online Free PDF

want to please her.
    I read her letter once more, then bury it deep in my skirt pocket again. I will carry it with me at all times.
    To my relief, the landlord is at large in the hall; I did not want to seek him out. Even without the torrent of emotion that threatens each minute to topple me, I would find this hard. I have a retiring disposition, I suppose. My life has ever been Hatville; I have rarely left it. And Aurelia was right: it was a prison. But I never thought of it like that, not while she was in it. We were like two birds, keeping each other company in a very fine cage.
    Now she is forcing me to see the wider world, but in this moment I do not feel I can thank her for it. I don’t expect to find a warm welcome outside Hatville. I am accustomed to feeling I am an inconvenience, yet I know that to carry out Aurelia’s wishes I will have to depend on others for help and information, though not, thank God, for money. So I am inordinately grateful when Mr. Carlton inquires whether he can help me with anything.
    â€œThank you, Mr. Carlton, you are very kind. I wonder, have you any idea of the times the trains will run today? I shall walk to the station and then . . . I wondered . . .” I run out of words. I have never taken a journey before. I hardly know how to shape the questions I need to ask. And I don’t want to leave this shabby inn before I have to; it represents my very last link with the life I have always known.
    â€œCertainly, Miss Snow, certainly. If you’ll be so good as to accompany me to my office, we can find out everything you need to know.”
    At the door he stops and twinkles at me. “Never fear, Miss Snow, we shall consult Mr. Bradshaw.” I look around for a benevolent gentleman with white whiskers and a wise expression. The room is, however, quite empty aside from a dense crowding of bookshelves and a very large, untidy desk. It is laden with papers and quills, and ornamented with three long spikes on which tufts of bills are speared. Empty stools stand about.
    â€œNow then,” he beams, taking down a thick pamphlet with pretensions to being a book. Tracks in the thick dust on the shelf betray that this volume is frequently used. “This is the most marvelous publication that ever was, Miss Snow. Do you know Mr. Bradshaw?”
    â€œI fear not.”
    â€œHe is the author of this splendid compendium. A collection of all the timetables of all the trains run by all the train companies across the land. Do you know how many rail journeys that is, Miss Snow?”
    â€œI’m afraid I cannot guess, Mr. Carlton.”
    â€œNo more can I! No more can anyone, excepting I suppose Mr. Bradshaw himself. Well now, in a word, the answer is many ! Look , Miss Snow, at all these trains!” He riffles the pages of the book at me in helpless wonder. There do seem to be a very great many trains.
    â€œJust think,” he continues, “until only a very few years ago stagecoaches still ran in our part of Surrey. Progress, Miss Snow, progress!” He pores over his oracle, licking his thumbs. On each page I see a dense thicket of black print, all columns and figures and lines. If this represents my future, I am more daunted than ever.
    â€œHa!” he triumphs, when he comes to the right page. “Allow me, Miss Snow?”
    â€œGladly, sir.”
    â€œUp or down?”
    â€œI beg your pardon?”
    â€œAre you wanting trains going up or trains going down, Miss Snow?”
    I hesitate. I had been under the impression that they all run flat along the ground, but I think perhaps nothing can surprise me anymore.
    â€œNorth or south, Miss Snow? Up towards London or down towards Brighton?”
    â€œOh, I see! Thank you, Mr. Carlton. Well now . . . “I try to phrase my response in such a way that it sounds as though I am just thinking through my plans, that I am going to London because it is the most obvious place