From the Heart by Sheila O'Flanagan

By Sheila O'Flanagan

From the guts unearths the unforeseen stories that lie underneath the outside of every-day lives, via a memorable forged of characters all looking for their very own chuffed endings. A sizzling date will get off to a disastrous commence; a tender couple lengthy for peace and quiet as they organize for his or her first Christmas as mom and dad; eavesdropping passengers appreciate they percentage extra in universal than they'd notion; a pair have a good time their twenty-fifth marriage ceremony anniversary, thinking about if it's all a sham; and Isobel from Isobel's marriage ceremony encounters an unforeseen reunion in a sumptuous Caribbean getaway.

A touching and heart-warming number of tales taken from Sheila O'Flanagan's bestselling collections locations, Connections and A Season to recollect, on hand jointly completely during this digital-only version.

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Extra resources for From the Heart

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A capital idea,” he replied. And so we did. THREE Oh! these architects! how I detest them for the mischief they have done. I should like to cut off their hands. —Further Reminiscences � ^ » It rained all that night, a quiet, steady rhythm that soothed me into a sleep so sound that, although I woke briefly in the early morning to the click and murmur of hot water pushing its way through cold radiator pipes, I went back to sleep, and did not wake fully until nearly eight o’clock. Finding to my satisfaction that the dawn noises had not been an hallucination, I bathed and dressed—in trousers, despite my host’s sensibilities—and put up my hair, before making my way downstairs.

My grandfather brought the two names together at the end of the eighteenth century when he, a Baring, inherited Lew. After my birth we lived a few miles north of here, in Bratton Clovelly, but my father, who was an Indian Army officer invalided home, did not like living in one place for long, so when I was three years old he packed us and the family silver into a carriage and left for Europe. My entire childhood was spent moving from one city to another, pausing only long enough for the post to catch us up.

The carriage drives at midnight from the ancestral house near Tavistock up to Okehampton castle for Lady Howard to pluck one blade of grass—” “The hound plucks it,” Baring-Gould sternly corrected him. ” objected Holmes. ” “But a hound—” “Holmes,” I interrupted. “Oh very well, the hound plucks the grass, and not until every blade is plucked—or bitten—can Lady Howard be free to take her rest. It’s a popular story, with songs and such, that by the way probably gave Stapleton the idea for his personal variation on the so-called Baskerville hound—which does not, in the legend, actually glow.

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