The Brontë Story [antikvár]

Haworth There was a cold wind this afternoon, but the sun shone for an hour or two. I walked out on the moors behind the house. The sheep were hiding from the wind under the stone walls, and there were grey clouds over the hills to the west. It is only November, but I could smell snow in the air. It will be a cold winter, this year of 1855. My name is Patrick Bronte, and I am seventy-eight years old. I am the rector of the village of Haworth. Haworth is a village of small, grey stone houses on the side of a hill in the north of England, and I live in a house at the top of the hill, next to the church and the graveyard. I walked through the graveyard to the church this afternoon. The house at Haworth 7 live in a house next to the church and the graveyard.' 1