Miss Buncle's Book
Miss Buncle's Book
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Who Knew One Book Could Cause So Much Chaos?
Barbara Bunde is in a bind. Times are harsh, and Barbara's bank account has seen better days. Maybe she could sell a novel ... if she knew any stories. Stumped for ideas, Barbara draws inspiration from her fellow residents of Silverstream, the little English village she knows inside and out.
To her surprise, the novel is a smash. It's a good thing she wrote under a pseudonym, because the folks of Silverstream are in an uproar. But what really turns Miss Bunde's world around is this: what happens to the characters in her book starts happening to their real-life counterparts. Does life really imitate art?
A beloved author who has sold more than seven million books, D. E. Stevenson is at her best with Miss Buncle's Book, crafting a highly original and charming tale about what happens when people see themselves through someone else's eyes.
"Love it, love it, love it"
"There are no vampires, no faeries, no weird creatures, just a sweet story about real people living in a world I've always dreamed of."—Reader Review
tall slim youth, barefooted with a tattered goat-skin round his body. The sun shone upon his golden hair, and on the fine golden down which clothed his arms and legs. He came into Copperfield over the bridge. The clear notes of his pipe, mingled with the song of the river, came to the ears of Major Waterfoot, who was digging in his garden. He straightened his back and looked up. The clear notes stirred something in his heart, something deep and elemental that had been slumbering for years. Mrs.
thoughtfully. Chapter Seven First Fruits There’s absolutely nothing to worry about,” said Mr. Abbott. He was standing in front of Miss Buncle’s fire in Miss Buncle’s comfortable, though rather shabby, and old-fashioned drawing-room and smiling at her cheerfully. “Any respectable lawyer would turn down the case. He would look a fool appearing in court with a case like that, and his clients would be made to look worse fools. We have only got to say, ‘The portrait which you find so
on Thursday at half-past three and tea afterward. Tell Dorothea I shall expect her too. I will go round in the car and invite everybody in Silverstream—everybody must come.” “All right,” said the Colonel. He realized that the interview was over and he was glad. He wanted to get away and arrange his thoughts. (He did not care a bit whether Mrs. Featherstone Hogg found John Smith, or whether that gentleman received the punishment she so vehemently desired to mete out to him: he only cared for
meeting,” said Milly, helping herself to Miss Buncle’s jam with a liberal hand. “Seems to ’ave been a sort of free fight from wot I ’ear. They all fixed on Mrs. Walker as being John Smith—” “Well, they fixed wrong,” interpolated Dorcas. “I know that,” said Milly calmly. “And how d’you know that so certain?” “Easy as A B C. I took a walk up to the doctor’s after supper larst night an’ ’ad a little chat with Nannie—you know Nannie Walker, silly old fat ’ead, ain’t she? Well,
want to marry you for? I suppose you think I would be happy and content to live all my life in a moldy country vicarage, pinching and scraping, and counting every halfpenny? Well you’re mistaken, then. I suppose you think you’re so good and wonderful that any girl would be proud to marry you and darn your socks for the rest of her life? Well, you’re mistaken there, too—thoroughly mistaken. You bore me to death,” said Vivian vindictively. “Do you hear that—you bore me to death.” Ernest heard