Mr Wrong by Elizabeth Jane Howard

By Elizabeth Jane Howard

From the bestselling writer of The Cazelet Chronicles comes Elizabeth Jane Howard's comes Mr incorrect, a selection of brief stories.

In this miraculous brief tale assortment, together with Mr Wrong, The committed and Three Miles Up, grasp storyteller, Elizabeth Jane Howard, illustrates her well known sort and scrumptious wit.

From a relations Christmas, to a house-party in France, and a haunting trip into the macabre, Howard explores the delicate tensions of relationships; from flat-sharing to adultery. humorous, perceptive and spine-tingling, Howard's tales are guaranteed to satisfaction.

'Howard has a present for tilting our feel of truth . . . wry humour and chic perceptions'
Guardian

'As polished, trendy and civilised as her many devotees could expect'
— i]Julian Barnes[/i]

'Each of those tales should be learn back with genuine pleasure'
day-by-day Telegraph

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Mr Wrong

From the bestselling writer of The Cazelet Chronicles comes Elizabeth Jane Howard's comes Mr fallacious, a set of brief stories.

In this amazing brief tale assortment, together with Mr fallacious, The dedicated and 3 Miles Up, grasp storyteller, Elizabeth Jane Howard, illustrates her well known sort and scrumptious wit.

From a kin Christmas, to a house-party in France, and a haunting trip into the macabre, Howard explores the delicate tensions of relationships; from flat-sharing to adultery. humorous, perceptive and spine-tingling, Howard's tales are guaranteed to pride.

'Howard has a present for tilting our experience of truth . . . wry humour and stylish perceptions'
—Guardian

'As polished, fashionable and civilised as her many devotees could expect'
— i]Julian Barnes[/i]

'Each of those tales will be learn back with genuine pleasure'
— day-by-day Telegraph

Extra resources for Mr Wrong

Example text

She showed her how to bind herself, how to wash the cloth and bind again. " She drew the girl to the window they had fashioned of the useless door, and together they looked out at the forest below. " She pictured the clearing in the woods, imagined them joining the coven's flight. Already, as if it had been days instead of years, she could feel the swift climb, the unstoppable cresting, like a tide in her veins. The next day, instead of heading for the village, Tabby hurried to the sacred grove.

As she listened to the shallow, even breaths of the babe in her lap, she closed her eyes and tried to feel her way through the years that lay ahead. Tabby was not blessed, as some in the coven were, with the gift of second sight, so the image she saw was more yearning than certainty, but it was a comfort nonetheless—a girl fair enough to be a princess, with a slender, graceful form and a laugh that tumbled like falls down a mossy bank. She did not know how long they sat, the little one curled against her with her left thumb in her mouth, Tabby rigid with bliss, counting the small heartbeats that drummed against her own chest.

That first day and many after, Tabby and the girl scrubbed and polished. They hauled bedding, benches, and trestles from the house they had left behind and dragged them up the winding stairs. For though they placed a few sconces and a braided rug in the hall on the ground floor, most of their belongings had to be carried to the topmost room, where the window and the old doorway let in a comforting, buttery light. They pushed a chest against the larger opening and hung thick curtains, turning it into a passable window.

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