{"product_id":"2940013746138","title":"Harmer John","description":"There was nothing unusual in this: in Southern Glebeshire the\u003cbr\u003ewinter is so often mild that the sea (impatient at the lassitude of\u003cbr\u003ethe air) seems suddenly to rise, and to wish to beat its way across\u003cbr\u003ethe narrow peninsula, to sweep the fields and hedges with its salt\u003cbr\u003ewater: it calls the heavens to its assistance, the skies open,\u003cbr\u003ewater pours out in torrents, the wind screams, shrieks, bellows--\u003cbr\u003esuddenly it knows that all is vanity, shrugs its hoary shoulders,\u003cbr\u003ecreeps back muttering, lifts its hand to the sky in a gesture of\u003cbr\u003ecynical farewell, and lies, heaving, hoping for a more victorious\u003cbr\u003eday.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the weeks around Christmas there is often such a storm, and,\u003cbr\u003ewhen other parts of England are showing gratitude sentimentally for\u003cbr\u003ethe traditional snow, we recover from our torrents of rain to find\u003cbr\u003ethe air warm, our skies mildly blue, the tower of our Cathedral\u003cbr\u003estretching pearl-grey to heaven, and the Pol rumpled with sunshine\u003cbr\u003esliding to the sea.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut the storm while it lasts seems to shake our town to its very\u003cbr\u003eroots; you can almost feel wild hands tearing at the stones beneath\u003cbr\u003eyour feet, rocking, rocking, rocking, hoping that at least one\u003cbr\u003ehouse may tumble. . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn this especial evening, December 22, 1906, Mrs. Penethen, a well-\u003cbr\u003eknown and respected widow, was sitting in front  of her kitchen\u003cbr\u003efire, her skirt drawn up to her knees, her toes resting on a wool-\u003cbr\u003eworked cushion, in her old old house in Canon's Yard.  The houses\u003cbr\u003ein Canon's Yard are, as every one knows, the oldest in Polchester,\u003cbr\u003eand Mrs. Penethen's was possibly the oldest in Canon's Yard, so you\u003cbr\u003ecan guess from that how old it was.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMrs. Penethen had lived in that house for forty years: she had come\u003cbr\u003einto that same kitchen with the brown splashes on the ceiling and\u003cbr\u003ethe two big warming-pans on the right of the oven when she was a\u003cbr\u003eblushing bride of twenty; she had borne two children in the four-\u003cbr\u003eposter upstairs, she had nursed her husband in the weeks of his\u003cbr\u003efever, had seen him laid in his coffin, had seen the coffin carried\u003cbr\u003edown the crooked black oak staircase--and now there she sat with\u003cbr\u003eher feet upon the fender reading Thelma, by Miss Marie Corelli, and\u003cbr\u003ewondering whether she would hear the Cathedral clock strike ten\u003cbr\u003ethrough the storm.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe was not alone in the kitchen.  There were also with her a cat,\u003cbr\u003ea dog and a sharp-eyed girl.  The cat and the dog were asleep, one\u003cbr\u003eon either side of the fire; the girl was sitting-staring straight\u003cbr\u003ebefore her.  Her hands were clasped, not tightly, on her lap.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMrs. Penethen was accustomed that her daughter Judy, who was now\u003cbr\u003etwenty-one and should know better, should sit for hours, saying\u003cbr\u003enothing, doing nothing, only her eyes and her rising, falling\u003cbr\u003ebreasts moving.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThrough the icy cold and black waters of Thelma's theatrical lumber\u003cbr\u003eher mind moved searching for her children.  She was always carried\u003cbr\u003eaway by anything that she read--that was why she liked novels,\u003cbr\u003eespecially did they lead her into loves and countries that were\u003cbr\u003estrange to her.  So she had, during the last two hours, been\u003cbr\u003ewandering with Thelma; her daughter's eyes now dragged her back.\u003cbr\u003eFifteen years of married life and no child!  All thought of one\u003cbr\u003eabandoned--and then Maude.  Four more years and then Judy.  One\u003cbr\u003emore year and the sudden fever, and poor old John with his brown\u003cbr\u003eeyes, his side-whiskers and the slight hunch on his left shoulder,\u003cbr\u003eshoved down into the ground!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe book slipped on to her lap.  She stared into the crimson\u003cbr\u003ecrystal coals.  John! . . .  His hand was on her arm, his soft\u003cbr\u003evoice like a lazy cat's begging her pardon for one of his so many\u003cbr\u003einfidelities.  He always confessed to her.  At first she had been\u003cbr\u003eunhappy; once she had run away for two nights, but he always told\u003cbr\u003eher that he loved her far the best, that she would outlast all the\u003cbr\u003eothers.  And she did.  He was her lover to the very end, and kind\u003cbr\u003eand tender. . . .  His brown eyes and the slight hunch on his\u003cbr\u003eshoulder.","brand":"WDS Publishing","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":47070206001392,"sku":"2940013746138","price":0.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0737\/7593\/9824\/files\/2940013746138_p0.jpg?v=1763589696","url":"https:\/\/shop-qa.barnesandnoble.com\/products\/2940013746138","provider":"Barnes \u0026 Noble (DEV)","version":"1.0","type":"link"}