検索キーワード： 著者 "Rosalie Parker" すべてのカテゴリー

15th February Morning: I have been looking forward to being here so much and now it hardly seems real. The view from my bedroom window is of fields and sheep and a hill that is almost a mountain.

Clive was right to suspect there would be trouble when he set up his computer consultancy. Just as he began his publicity campaign, the local newspaper ran an article about him.

Dusk was falling as Patrick slowed the car and pulled into a lay-by. Scots pines swayed in the strengthening wind. He had heard on the radio that a storm was blowing in.

The scent of lilac wafted across the garden. Melissa raised her head and watched as the zephyr lifted the skirts of the columbines and ruffled the blowsy peonies. The murmur of the bees did its best to lull her back into lethargy, but it was time to rouse herself: she had been lying in the sun too long.

I have been looking forward to being here so much and now it hardly seems real. The view from my bedroom window is of fields and sheep and a hill that is almost a mountain. It is very much like the landscape we dreamed of when we first watched the Series, only on TV the fields are framed by the screen. Here they seem to flow on for ever.

The city was locked in a kind of permanent twilight. George could not get used to the sun hanging dimly halfway down the sky, its residual brightness hidden behind the clouds. This after it had risen at nine-thirty, with sunset due around four.

It was a pity about the weather, but even in Yorkshire it couldn't rain all the time. Geraldine pushed her hair into her rainhood and studied the thin drizzle pittering into brimming puddles.

'Today, class,' said Miss Flanders, surveying the room full of Year Ten students seated around the somewhat battered tables, 'we will be looking at the circulatory system. Please open your books at page fifteen.' There were the scrapings and scufflings of chairs being pushed back and bags being opened, and the slap of textbooks hitting the table-tops.

To Pavlo the steppe was a sea of undulating grass, the stems and seed heads rustling against each other in the rising breeze. In the distance the mountains shimmered in the afternoon heat.

Around three and a half thousand years ago, members of a small community of Bronze Age people spent several days away from their usual activities of farming, hunting, weaving and food processing in order to construct a burial mound.

'Tell me who it is' 'What difference will it make?' 'After six years I'm entitled to know who you're leaving me for.' 'Ok. It's someone I grew up with . . . from the village. It's Marcus Harding.'

As soon as Simone set foot on the path through the heather, her spirits began to rise.

As soon as Simone set foot on the path through the heather, her spirits began to rise. The red grouse were nesting, but the cries of curlew and lapwing, and the piping of meadow pipits and the trilling of skylarks punctuated the perfect stillness.

The sand shimmered and sparkled under the midday sun. Millicent wriggled her toes in her sandals and looked up at Fabian as he addressed the party of tourists. Behind them, the calm blue sea rippled rhythmically over the beach.

Dusk is some way off and I stand at the bar, waiting to be served. I've been here often on my way home from work - It's half-empty on early summer evenings, and the staff are efficient and not averse to passing the time in conversation.

Several days had passed since the incident and the villagers were still coming to terms with the fact that their young people would have to lie low for a while. Mike's two teenage daughters were caught up in it and he informed them that they would be grounded for the next month.

Although not compulsory, it was made clear to me that I was expected to attend the group. I could find no good excuse to avoid going to the first meeting.

Dusk is some way off and I stand at the bar, waiting to be served. I've been here often on my way home from work - It's half-empty on early summer evenings, and the staff are efficient and not averse to passing the time in conversation.

The feasting is done and Akui has lit the great fire. See how the flames crackle through the brushwood and sparks fly up into the darkness! Soon the timber will burn and warm us through the night and into the dawn.

The taxi picked up speed as the post-industrial sprawl of Sheffield gave way to the open hills of the Peak District. Ellen could see the driver glancing at her from time to time in the rear view mirror. Weary after her long rail journey she was grateful for his silence, even though it might have been useful to hear stories of 'The Big House'.