Nancy: A Novel (Classic Reprint) - Softcover

Rhoda Broughton

 
9781330274309: Nancy: A Novel (Classic Reprint)

Synopsis

Excerpt from Nancy: A Novel

"Put into a small preserving-pan three ounce of fresh butter, and, as soon as it is just molted, add one pound of brown sugar of moderate quality - "

"Not moderate; the browner the better," interpolates Algy.

"Cannot say I agree with you. I hate brown sugar-filthy stuff! " says Hobby, contradictiously.

"Not half so filthy as white, if you come to that," retorts Algy, loftily, looking up from the lemon he is grating, to extinguish bis brother. " They clear white sugar with but -"

"Keep the 30 since gently over a clear fire for about fifteen minutes," interrupt I, beginning to read again very fast, in a loud, dull relative to hinder further argument, "or until a little of the mixture dipped into cold water breaks clear between the teeth without sticking to them. When it is boiled to this point it must be poured out immediately or it will bum."

Having galloped jovially along, scorning stops, I here pause out of breath. Wc arc a large family, wo Greys, and we are oil making taffy. Yes, every one of u*. It would take all the fingers of one hand, and tbo thumb of the other, to count us, 0 reader. Sixl Yes, six. A Frenchman might well hold up his hands inastonicd horror at the insane prolificness-the foolhardy fertility-of British householders. We eome very improbably close together, except Tou Tou, who was an afterthought. There arc no two of us, I am proud to say, exactly simultaneous, but we have come
I tumbling on each other's heels into the world ! in so Lot a hurry that wo evidently expect to find it n pleasant place when we get there. Perhaps tve do-perliaps wc do not; friends, you will hear and judge for yourselves.

1 A few years ago when we were little, people used to say that we were quite a prcUy sight, I like little steps one above another. We are big steps now, and no one any longer hazards tbo suggestion of our being pretty. On the other hand, nobody denies that wc arc each as well furnished with legs, arms, and other etceteras, as our neighbors, nor can affinnlhat we are notably more deficient in wits tban those of our friends who have arrived in twos and threes.

We ore in the school room, the big bare school-room, that ha seen us all-that is still seeing some of us-unwillingly dragged, and painfully goaded up the steep slopes of book-learning. Outside, the March wind is roughly bustling the dry, brown tree and pinching the diffident green shoots, while the round and raj lcss sun of late afternoon is staring, from behind the clm-twigs, in at the long maps on the wall, in at the high chairs-tall of hack, cruelly tiny of seat, off whose rungs who have kicked all the paint-in at the green-baize table, richly freaked with splashes. Hardly less red than the sun's, are our burnt faces gathered about the fire.

This fire has no fiame-only a glowing, ruddy heart, on which tho bright brass saucepan sits; and kneeling before it, stirring the mess with a long iron spoon, is Barbara. Algy, as I have before remarked, is grating a lemon. Bobby is buttering soup-plates.

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About the Author

Rhoda Broughton (29 November 1840 – 5 June 1920) was a Welsh novelist and short story writer. Her early novels earned her a reputation for sensationalism which caused her later and stronger work to be neglected by serious critics, though she was described as a queen of the circulating libraries.

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