“I said, “Mrs. Radcliffe, is there a little village that you know of where I could go and be in real country?” “There is the village of Goudhurst in Kent. It has a comfortable Inn; I have stayed there myself.” There was another student in the school who came from Victoria. She decided to come to Goudhurst for the holiday, too. The village was a tiny sprawl of cottages on the top of a little hill. We were met and wavered up the Goudhurst Hill by the Inn’s ancient host and his more ancient horse a...nd chaise. The village was all of a twitter because tomorrow the Butcher’s daughter was to marry the Baker’s son. Everyone was talking of the coming event. The Inn parlour was low-ceiled, and beamed. There was a bright fire on the open hearth and its glow pinked the table cloth, the tea cups, and the cheeks of our host and hostess, who were garrulous about the wedding. My bedroom was bitterly cold, the bed felt clammy with damp. I woke to a sharp spring rain next morning, but the sky did not want to wet the wedding, clouds scuttled away and soon the sun shone out.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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