He stepped off the train at Lamy expecting nothing at all. He had no idea of the city he was entering: what it looked like, how one passed the time, what people one would know—it was all unexplored. He had never in his life been west of Buffalo. Mary, his mother, had written him a few letters about it, but she had not had time to write much, and anyway she was very busy finding out for herself. Mary expected to settle down in Santa Fé for a long time; it was good for her health out here and she liked it.
Blake, on the other hand, had no plans. He was not supposed to have any: he was too young to have plans. Mary had plans for him, no doubt, but as yet he had no notice of them.
He stood for two forlorn minutes on the platform at Lamy, wondering what to do next. A chauffeur—a stranger—found him and took him in hand and put him away, with the baggage, in a new limousine. The limousine then turned around and began to drive up a winding hill, toward Santa Fé, Mary and revelation.
It was a beautiful drive up a long hill, the road twisting and leading up and down in an intriguing manner. Blake tried hard to appreciate it, but his mind would not behave. It kept reverting to another theme; a tiresome theme; a threadbare theme. His mind was an independent disagreeable thing with a passion for theatrical revivals. Just now it disregarded the beautiful heights of the Sangre de Cristo mountains and devoted itself to a New England scene, the setting of an unpleasant memory. Heedless of Blake’s desire, it carried the props to the stage and set them up. Wearily, Blake helped. Obediently he placed the head-master’s desk in the exact middle of the head-master’s room, just below the window that looked out on the front view of the school. Doggedly he put the head-master into the chair behind the desk, and sullenly took up his own old position before the desk, facing Dr. Miller. Everything was ready, and with lifted hand Dr. Miller began the dialogue:
1117309062
Blake, on the other hand, had no plans. He was not supposed to have any: he was too young to have plans. Mary had plans for him, no doubt, but as yet he had no notice of them.
He stood for two forlorn minutes on the platform at Lamy, wondering what to do next. A chauffeur—a stranger—found him and took him in hand and put him away, with the baggage, in a new limousine. The limousine then turned around and began to drive up a winding hill, toward Santa Fé, Mary and revelation.
It was a beautiful drive up a long hill, the road twisting and leading up and down in an intriguing manner. Blake tried hard to appreciate it, but his mind would not behave. It kept reverting to another theme; a tiresome theme; a threadbare theme. His mind was an independent disagreeable thing with a passion for theatrical revivals. Just now it disregarded the beautiful heights of the Sangre de Cristo mountains and devoted itself to a New England scene, the setting of an unpleasant memory. Heedless of Blake’s desire, it carried the props to the stage and set them up. Wearily, Blake helped. Obediently he placed the head-master’s desk in the exact middle of the head-master’s room, just below the window that looked out on the front view of the school. Doggedly he put the head-master into the chair behind the desk, and sullenly took up his own old position before the desk, facing Dr. Miller. Everything was ready, and with lifted hand Dr. Miller began the dialogue:
Beginners Luck
He stepped off the train at Lamy expecting nothing at all. He had no idea of the city he was entering: what it looked like, how one passed the time, what people one would know—it was all unexplored. He had never in his life been west of Buffalo. Mary, his mother, had written him a few letters about it, but she had not had time to write much, and anyway she was very busy finding out for herself. Mary expected to settle down in Santa Fé for a long time; it was good for her health out here and she liked it.
Blake, on the other hand, had no plans. He was not supposed to have any: he was too young to have plans. Mary had plans for him, no doubt, but as yet he had no notice of them.
He stood for two forlorn minutes on the platform at Lamy, wondering what to do next. A chauffeur—a stranger—found him and took him in hand and put him away, with the baggage, in a new limousine. The limousine then turned around and began to drive up a winding hill, toward Santa Fé, Mary and revelation.
It was a beautiful drive up a long hill, the road twisting and leading up and down in an intriguing manner. Blake tried hard to appreciate it, but his mind would not behave. It kept reverting to another theme; a tiresome theme; a threadbare theme. His mind was an independent disagreeable thing with a passion for theatrical revivals. Just now it disregarded the beautiful heights of the Sangre de Cristo mountains and devoted itself to a New England scene, the setting of an unpleasant memory. Heedless of Blake’s desire, it carried the props to the stage and set them up. Wearily, Blake helped. Obediently he placed the head-master’s desk in the exact middle of the head-master’s room, just below the window that looked out on the front view of the school. Doggedly he put the head-master into the chair behind the desk, and sullenly took up his own old position before the desk, facing Dr. Miller. Everything was ready, and with lifted hand Dr. Miller began the dialogue:
Blake, on the other hand, had no plans. He was not supposed to have any: he was too young to have plans. Mary had plans for him, no doubt, but as yet he had no notice of them.
He stood for two forlorn minutes on the platform at Lamy, wondering what to do next. A chauffeur—a stranger—found him and took him in hand and put him away, with the baggage, in a new limousine. The limousine then turned around and began to drive up a winding hill, toward Santa Fé, Mary and revelation.
It was a beautiful drive up a long hill, the road twisting and leading up and down in an intriguing manner. Blake tried hard to appreciate it, but his mind would not behave. It kept reverting to another theme; a tiresome theme; a threadbare theme. His mind was an independent disagreeable thing with a passion for theatrical revivals. Just now it disregarded the beautiful heights of the Sangre de Cristo mountains and devoted itself to a New England scene, the setting of an unpleasant memory. Heedless of Blake’s desire, it carried the props to the stage and set them up. Wearily, Blake helped. Obediently he placed the head-master’s desk in the exact middle of the head-master’s room, just below the window that looked out on the front view of the school. Doggedly he put the head-master into the chair behind the desk, and sullenly took up his own old position before the desk, facing Dr. Miller. Everything was ready, and with lifted hand Dr. Miller began the dialogue:
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Beginners Luck
Beginners Luck
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Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940148994015 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Lost Leaf Publications |
| Publication date: | 08/28/2013 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| File size: | 496 KB |
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