Free Music at Long Verney by Sylvia Townsend Warner

marriages that at first seem so surprising and soon after seem so natural that one can’t imagine why they did not happen earlier. And she would go on pretty much as usual – an aunt to Antonia, to George an old acquaintance, a headless phantom. They would always treat her with kindness, and Antonia would unfailingly remember her birthday and ask her to lunch.

Love
    â€œ NO. THERE’S NO telephone,” said the long-legged young woman. “It seemed more important to have drains, so we chose drains. We couldn’t afford both at once.”
    â€œFar better to have drains,” said Dinnie.
    â€œYes, that was what we felt. You see, it needed so much doing to it. It was a farm cottage once, but no-one had lived in it for years. But we fell in love with it, we felt we must rescue it. We did think of calling it Cinderella Cottage, but Jim said it would be whimsical.”
    â€œI like Meadow Cottage much better.” Dinnie looked out of the window at the calm Cambridgeshire landscape, cows under elm trees, shorn midsummer fields dotted with trusses of hay. It wasn’t in the least what they were looking for, this rather self-conscious Meadow Cottage – but perhaps as a pro tem? It smelled of wood smoke . . . Wood smoke always makes one sentimental.
    â€œIt will be sad for you to leave it, when you’ve made it so charming – even if it’s only for a couple of years.”
    â€œNothing would make us, if it weren’t for Jim having to go to Rhode Island to print
The Anatomy of Melancholy
.”
    A queer reversal, thought Avery. Twenty years ago, young couples were writing arresting new books. Now they were all typographers, doing limited editions of classics. Twenty years ago,too, young couples used to be approximately the same height.
    â€œWhat rent –” began Dinnie. Avery broke in; he could see she was dangerously drawn towards Meadow Cottage. “Which press?” he asked.
    At the same moment a door opened, a coffee tray was put down with a clatter, and the short stout young man said, “I hope you’ll excuse me, but the house is on fire.”
    He darted away, leaving the door open behind him. The young woman hurried after him. A waft of flame came down the wide chimney like a goblin, flared, vanished. Avery shut the door and the window opening on the calm landscape.
    Dinnie was on her feet. She had emptied a log basket and was filling it with their Staffordshire chimney ornaments.
    â€œYou get down the pictures, Avery. We can’t just sit here fiddling. We’ll take everything we can outside, the poor creatures!”
    He unhooked the pictures and stacked them. Dinnie had opened a bureau drawer. It was full to overflowing. So was the next drawer, and the next.
    â€œThere never is anything to put anything in in an emergency,” she said in the fractious voice of one hardened to insult.
    â€œAnd all these books,” said Avery. “Folios and the Lord knows what.” He had a pile of them in his arms as he spoke, his chin resting on the topmost. As he spoke the midmost books escaped and cascaded onto the floor.
    â€œUse the curtains.”
    The curtains were on a rustic string. He wrenched them down and the books were bundled up in them.
    â€œNow for it! Let’s hope the passage isn’t blazing.”
    As they opened the door, another goblin of flame darted down the chimney. The passage was filled with smoke. The young man peered over the stair rail.
    â€œWe’re taking some of your belongings into the garden,” said Avery.
    â€œTo be on the safe side,” added Dinnie.
    The young man said, “Thanks a lot,” choked, and disappeared.
    â€œHave a wet blanket,” Dinnie shouted after him.
    Thick smoke drifted over the garden. Tufts of burning straw floated down. Overhead was a noise like the swarming of innumerable hornets, and looking up they saw flames cringing among the thatch.
    â€œHer linen! The