A haunted house : and other short stories / Virginia Woolf
| dc.contributor | Smith, John B. Department of Computer Science Chapel Hill College Chapel Hill |
| dc.contributor.author | Woolf, Virginia, 1882-1941 |
| dc.coverage.placeName | London |
| dc.date.accessioned | 2018-07-27 |
| dc.date.accessioned | 2022-08-21T15:59:29Z |
| dc.date.available | 2022-08-21T15:59:29Z |
| dc.date.created | 1906-1941 |
| dc.identifier | ota:0147 |
| dc.identifier.uri | http://hdl.handle.net/20.500.14106/0147 |
| dc.description.abstract | Resource deposited with the Oxford Text Archive. |
| dc.format.extent | Text data (1 file : ca. 267 KB) |
| dc.format.medium | Digital bitstream |
| dc.language | English |
| dc.language.iso | eng |
| dc.publisher | University of Oxford |
| dc.relation.ispartof | Oxford Text Archive Legacy Collection |
| dc.rights | Distributed by the University of Oxford under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. |
| dc.rights.uri | http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/3.0/ |
| dc.rights.label | PUB |
| dc.subject.lcsh | Short stories, English -- 20th century |
| dc.subject.other | Short stories |
| dc.title | A haunted house : and other short stories / Virginia Woolf |
| dc.type | Text |
| has.files | yes |
| branding | Oxford Text Archive |
| files.size | 273109 |
| files.count | 1 |
| otaterms.date.range | 1900-1999 |
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<T A Haunted House> Whatever hour you woke there was a door shutting. From room to room they went, hand in hand, lifting here, opening there, making sure - a ghostly couple. "Here we left it," she said. And he added, "Oh, but here too]" "It's upstairs," she murmured. "And in the garden," he whispered. "Quietly,"they said, "or we shall wake them." But it wasn't that you woke us. Oh, no. "They're looking for it; they're drawing the curtain," one might say, and so read on a page or two. "Now they've found it," one would be certain, stopping the pencil on the margin. And then, tired of reading, one might rise and see for oneself, the house all empty, the doors standing open, only the wood pigeons bubbling with content and the hum of the threshing machine sounding from the farm. "What did I come in here for? What did I want to find?" My hands were empty. "Perhaps it's upstairs then?" The apples were in the loft. And so down again, the garden still as ever, only the book had slipped i . . .
