Mrs. God Read Online Free PDF Page A

“In going to my naked bed as one that would have slept , I heard a wife saying to her child, that long before had wept , She sighed sad and sang full sweet, to bring the babe to rest , That would not calm but cried still, in sucking at her breast .”
    â€œUm, yes,” Standish said, and quickly got into the car. He turned the key in the ignition and glanced sideways at the man, who had come out of his trance and was shuffling toward the car, reaching for the handle of the passenger door. Standish cursed himself for not locking the doors as soon as he had gotten in. The engine caught, and Standish pulled away before the man reached the handle. He looked in the mirror and saw the creature staggering up the middle of the road, gesturing with both hands. Standish looked ahead quickly.
    He drove through the emptiness for perhaps five minutes before coming to a small green sign which read HUCKSTALL 10 MI.
    It was, when he came to it, a village of narrow lanes lined with brick cottages, so ugly and uninviting that he nearly decided to pass through it and continue on. But the next village appeared to be at least twenty miles away, and it would take forty-five minutes to drive that distance over the country roads. And when he came up to the market square in the center of town, Huckstall did not seem so grim.
    Triangular plastic pennants on strings marked off separate areas of the cobbled square—on market days, each area would belong to a separate stallholder. Beyond the strings of pennants lay reassuring signs of civilization, a bow-fronted shop called Boots the Chemist, the imperial stone facade of a Lloyds Bank, and the plate-glass window, filled with brightly colored paperbacks, of a W. H. Smith bookstore. On the corner opposite Standish and his Escort crammed with luggage stood a large double-fronted half-timbered building with bay windows, a small blue sign with the words TAKE COURAGE below a golden rooster, and a much larger sign depicting crossed dueling pistols which bore the legend THE DUELISTS . The windows sparkled, the blue paint and white trim gleamed. Standish had a sudden vision of a roasted pig on a serving platter, thick wedges of crumbly yellow cheese, overflowing tankards of ale, a fat smiling man in a toque carving slices of rare roast beef and pouring thick brown gravy onto Yorkshire pudding.
    He could make it to Beaswick and Esswood in another three or four hours. Stopped off for a pub lunch, he would say. Beautiful little place in Huckstall called The Duelists. Do you know it? Ought to be in the guidebooks, if you ask me .
    Standish left his car parked on the side of the square and walked through the chill gray air toward the glistening pub. His stomach rumbled. It came to him that he had driven a strange car hundreds of unfamiliar miles, he was the recipient of a distinguished English literary fellowship, he was about to enter an English interior for the first time. He fairly bounded up the steps and opened the door.
    His first impression was of the pub’s size, his second that it must have closed for the afternoon. The interior of The Duelists was divided into a series of enormous rooms furnished with round tables and padded booths. A red plaid carpet covered the floors, and the walls were artificially half-timbered. In the hazy light from the windows, Standish saw a stocky black-haired man washing glasses behind the bar on the far side of the rows of empty tables. The air stank of cigarette smoke. The bartender glanced up at Standish hovering inside the door, then resumed pulling large, vaguely pineapple-shaped glasses out of hot water and setting them up on the bar.
    Standish wondered if he still had time to get a sandwich. He walked to the bar. The tops of the tables were slick with beer, and most of the ashtrays were filled. Crumpled packs of Silk Cut and Rothmans lay beside the ashtrays.
    â€œYes,” the barman said, looking up sharply before plunging his hands into the water