{"product_id":"2940013750661","title":"Lucia's Progress","description":"Mrs. Emmeline Lucas was walking briskly and elegantly up and down\u003cbr\u003ethe cinder path which traversed her kitchen garden and was so\u003cbr\u003econveniently dry underfoot even after heavy rain.  This house of\u003cbr\u003ehers, called \"Grebe,\" stood some quarter of a mile outside the\u003cbr\u003eancient and enlightened town of Tilling, on its hill away to the\u003cbr\u003ewest; in front there stretched out the green pasture-land of the\u003cbr\u003emarsh, flat and featureless, as far as the line of sand-dunes along\u003cbr\u003ethe shore.  She had spent a busy morning divided about equally\u003cbr\u003ebetween practising a rather easy sonata by Mozart and reading a\u003cbr\u003erather difficult play by Aristophanes.  There was the Greek on one\u003cbr\u003epage and an excellent English translation on the page opposite, and\u003cbr\u003ethe play was so amusing that to-day she had rather neglected the\u003cbr\u003eGreek and pursued the English.  At this moment she was taking the\u003cbr\u003eair to refresh her after her musical and intellectual labours, and\u003cbr\u003efelt quite ready to welcome the sound of that tuneful set of little\u003cbr\u003ebells in the hall which would summon her to lunch.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe January morning was very mild and her keen bird-like eye noted\u003cbr\u003ethat several imprudent and precocious polyanthuses (she spoke and\u003cbr\u003eeven thought of them as \"polyanthi\") were already in flower, and\u003cbr\u003ethat an even more imprudent tortoiseshell butterfly had been\u003cbr\u003etempted from its hybernating quarters and was flitting about these\u003cbr\u003eearly blossoms.  Presently another joined it, and they actually\u003cbr\u003eseemed to be engaged in a decrepit dalliance quite unsuitable to\u003cbr\u003etheir faded and antique appearance.  The tortoiseshells appeared to\u003cbr\u003ebe much pleased with each other, and Lucia was vaguely reminded of\u003cbr\u003etwo friends of hers, both of mature years, who had lately married\u003cbr\u003eand with whom she was to play Bridge this afternoon.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe inhaled the soft air in long breaths holding it in for five\u003cbr\u003eseconds according to the Yoga prescription and then expelling it\u003cbr\u003eall in one vigorous puff.  Then she indulged in a few of those\u003cbr\u003ephysical exercises, jerks and skippings and flexings which she\u003cbr\u003efound so conducive to health, pleased to think that a woman of her\u003cbr\u003eage could prance with such supple vigour.  Another birthday would\u003cbr\u003eknock at her door next month, and if her birth certificate was\u003cbr\u003ecorrect (and there was no reason for doubting it) the conclusion\u003cbr\u003ewas forced upon her that if for every year she had already lived,\u003cbr\u003eshe lived another, she would then be a centenarian.  For a brief\u003cbr\u003emoment the thought of the shortness of life and the all-devouring\u003cbr\u003egrave laid a chill on her spirit, as if a cold draught had blown\u003cbr\u003eround the corner of her house, but before she had time to shiver,\u003cbr\u003eher habitual intrepidity warmed her up again, and she resolved to\u003cbr\u003emake the most of the years that remained, although there might not\u003cbr\u003ebe even fifty more in store for her.  Certainly she would not\u003cbr\u003eindulge in senile dalliance, like those aged butterflies, for\u003cbr\u003enothing made a woman so old as pretending to be young, and there\u003cbr\u003ewould surely be worthier outlets for her energy than wantonness.\u003cbr\u003eNever yet had she been lacking in activity or initiative or even\u003cbr\u003eattack when necessary, as those ill-advised persons knew who from\u003cbr\u003etime to time had attempted to thwart her career, and these\u003cbr\u003epriceless gifts were still quite unimpaired.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was a little over a year since the most remarkable adventure of\u003cbr\u003eher life so far had befallen her, when the great flood burst the\u003cbr\u003eriver bank just across the road, and she and poor panic-stricken\u003cbr\u003eElizabeth Mapp had been carried out to sea on the kitchen table.\u003cbr\u003eThey had been picked up by a trawler in the Channel and had spent\u003cbr\u003ethree weird but very interesting months with a fleet of cod-fishers\u003cbr\u003eon the Gallagher Bank.  Lucia's undefeated vitality had pulled them\u003cbr\u003ethrough, but since then she had never tasted cod.  On returning\u003cbr\u003ehome at grey daybreak on an April morning they had found that a\u003cbr\u003ehandsome cenotaph had been erected to their memories in the\u003cbr\u003echurchyard, for Tilling had naturally concluded that they must be\u003cbr\u003edead.  But Tilling was wrong, and the cenotaph was immediately\u003cbr\u003eremoved.","brand":"WDS Publishing","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":47163554267376,"sku":"2940013750661","price":3.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0737\/7593\/9824\/files\/2940013750661_p0.jpg?v=1763598401","url":"https:\/\/shop-qa.barnesandnoble.com\/products\/2940013750661","provider":"Barnes \u0026 Noble (DEV)","version":"1.0","type":"link"}