The Islands of Dr. Thomas Read Online Free PDF

the night before, nothing he said escaped her. She commented on it, argued with it, made it a point to stand up to him every time, as a point of honour, as though she were chatting with a schoolmate.
    Sometimes François noticed that his friends looked a bit nervous, no doubt worried that their daughter was going too far. They don’t understand either , he realized, saddened to see a limit to the vast expanses of their friendship. On the other hand, he liked everything about Émilie. Nothing she said shocked him; the fears he could sense under her friendly teasing and chiding, her sensitive attention to people and things, and even her thoughts that seemed so close to his.
    She took his arm as though they were used to walking together. They strolled along the shore, then turned left on a little road that led up from the beach. François stopped in front of an old house with a tambour, a removable porch that protected the inside door from the weather. Snow had piled up during the night and the driveway had not been cleared, a sure sign that the house was abandoned. Against the inside wall of the tambour were some empty flower pots that must have once held the magnificent red and pink geraniums that traditionally brighten dull days and grey seasons.
    Peering at the lace curtains pulled shut, she could imagine the kitchen table next to the stove, the chairs carefully lined up, the framed image of the Virgin Mother right next to the schedule of the tides and the barometer. She could feel the penetrating, paralyzing cold of the room where there used to be a blazing fire...life suspended. She shivered. He looked at her a moment, as if her thoughts had led him, along with her, into the abandoned kitchen. Then he grabbed his camera and began to take pictures.
    â€œWhat’s so special about it?” she asked.
    As far as she was concerned, there were dozens of houses just like this in town and this one was far from being the most beautiful.
    â€œLook at the tambour. It could be a simple square box. But it isn’t; instead, there’s that nice trim up at the top. Look carefully. In a few years there will be no more houses like this.”
    She did as he asked, listening attentively until he finished talking. She looked at the snow hugging the stairs up to the entryway, untouched by footprints, forming a splendid arch between the steps and glistening in the sunlight as pure as the first day on earth. This is what the islands must have looked like before the settlers arrived, she suddenly realized. These few metres of virgin snow were a miniature of that unspoiled universe.
    When he had finished taking pictures, François took her arm and led her down another street. On this Saturday morning, the day after a big storm, the place was deserted. Émilie had the dizzying sensation of being free from the laws of time and space. They walked, without any set destination, through this winter decor where the everyday landmarks had been erased by the snow and wind, where there were no cars in the lane or passersby in the streets; there was only the raw glare of sunlight—so rare at this time of year—and of course, especially François, holding her arm, their breath mingling in the white whirlwind blown by the harsh and persistent wind. The whole scene transformed their walk into an escape from reality. Perhaps I’ve slipped into that other life of mine, the one that is invisible , she thought. And with that, Émilie who usually chose to analyze every little detail, let herself focus fully on the present moment and rely on her memory for the rest.
    A few minutes later, François stopped in front of another house, its shingles—worn down by mist, rain, and snow—had lost all colour. This time he walked right up to the house and began to take pictures.
    â€œYou can’t tell me it’s pretty,” she said, a little put off by all the attention he was paying to something she did not find