Pride And Prejudice Book With Letters の小説・ストーリー

Percival A rush of excitement surged through me as I bent down and grabbed a handful of stray letters. They were from both Edeline and me—our communications with each other. I noticed the top letter was one I had written when I was crying; the ink had blurred from my tears. My heart pounded fiercely as anger and frustration welled up inside me. I set that letter aside, the pain still raw, and moved on to the next one. This one was from Edeline.

In the middle of their arguement, they didn't noticed that Gerald fell asleep again. Willie already submitted his document about how successful his cousin Hugh Darcy to the station. As Princess Irina told her, he should mention the bars and the clubs Hugh runs, not just in Cambridge but also in London and West England. The news was spread through news papers, one of Sam's men disguised as a guess at Pemberley and dropped a news paper there so that Lady Sophia will be aware of it.

August rushes to the kitchen looking terrified, but his heart eases somewhat when he sees what Elizabeth was pointing towards. She picks up the envelope with trembling hands and noted that it carried no weight, it must only be a letter of sorts. She looks at August and he holds his hands out, intending to open it for her. With the shake of her head, she tears it open and takes out a letter. Opening it, she reads it quietly… then her head snaps up, and she looks at August with a bewildered expression. He walks towards her and takes the letter from her hand: My Lizzy,

I’m moving slower, holding the small of my back, when I find the drawer half-open. It’s not locked. And inside… is his old leather-bound notebook. My heart jumps. I think he’s lost it years ago—back when we were married at first. Curiosity gets the better of me. I sit in the armchair and begin to read. They’re not journal entries. They’re letters. To me. Dozens of them. All undelivered. Some written in anger, others in heartbreak. But most are heartbreakingly tender. “I saw the way you looked at me before you left. And I hate that I was too proud to run after you.”

She doubted he would have moved them somewhere else; he had no reason to suspect she'd want to take them. The letters were right where he'd left them, tucked safely in the drawer by the fridge. The clock in the kitchen reminded her with each steady tick that time was running out. But she had to make sure she was right. Settling into a chair, she unbound the twine containing the letters and began to read them one by one. Some were addressed to a woman he called "Dearest Glory." Elizabeth

She reached over the stacks with a scraggy hand and picked up a plain-covered book, handing it to Adea. Adea flipped it over to look at the spine, which showed the title, Pride and Prejudice. “Oh, no thank you,” Adea said with a kind smile as she handed the book back. “I don’t do much reading. My sister on the other hand-” She made a gesture toward Lyda, who was still flipping through the pages of one of the thickest books Adea had ever seen. “Ah!” the old woman exclaimed. “Fascinated by religious texts, my dear?”

He follows it up with silk hand gloves which he drops on my palms. Quietly, I follow his orders, taking care not to rip the hand gloves with my hastiness. "You can open it now." He pronounces. "You can't get much cleaner than that." With shaky hands, I skim the hand cover of the book, running my fingers through it and feeling the hard leather beneath my tips. Flipping it open, I stare in shock at the words written there. Pride and prejudice. Written by Jane Austen. Edited by William Gifford.

Because memories of last night were still vivid in my head—our lips meeting in the dark, our sweaty bodies tangled in the sheets as we drove toward our climax. Footsteps approached the garden, stealing our attention. It was a footman, carrying a tray of letter. “A royal letter from Azalea, Your Majesties,” he announced, arching forward in a bow. I picked up the letter and opened it. It read; Dearest Emily,

Yet, in recent times, she had noticed a change that was not yet fully comprehended by her. The sight of a small wooden box beneath the counter caught her gaze. Although it wasn't part of the tidy, organized world she had constructed, this held only the unforeseeable aspect of her existence. Withholding her gaze, she grasped it tightly and lifted the lid. There were neatly folded letters, each with the same familiar handwriting. Fingers wiped over them, then she pulled one out, her lips curving into a soft, almost kissable smile. It was revealed that she had read it more than once, but she repeated it now.

Sir Walter Elliot, of Kellynch Hall, in Somersetshire, was a man who, for his own amusement, never took up any book but the Baronetage; there he found occupation for an idle hour, and consolation in a distressed one; there his faculties were roused into admiration and respect, by contemplating the limited remnant of the earliest patents; there any unwelcome sensations, arising from domestic affairs changed naturally into pity and contempt as he turned over the almost endless creations of the last century; and there, if every other leaf were powerless, he could read his own history with an interest which never failed. This was the page at which the favourite volume always opened: