Henry Anderson Narrative

No,no- do not say so. Well, go on” (Austen 150). Henry does not continue and allows Catherine to use her own imagination to imagine what terrors await her. Realizing that her emotions have gotten away form her, Catherine is rather embarrassed with herself, and Austen writes, “Catherine, recollecting herself, grew ashamed of her eagerness, and began earnestly to assure (Henry) that her attention had been fixed without the smallest apprehension of really meeting with what he related” (Austen 150).

“You don’t know anything about me.” She sent him a dark scowl before looking over her shoulder.

She edged her body along the wall trying to keep from frightening it further and eased downstairs to open

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Lena’s voice is light and tinged with the drowsiness of the morning.

She makes her way to the room when getting closer to the room she saw how it was so eerie and shady looking. She again shook off the feeling and entered the room. Looking around she looks at the baren room. The wallpaper crumbling off the edges of the wall, the bed sheets old and dusty showing no one has been in this room for weeks maybe months. She walks over to the bed sitting her stuff down in the nearby chair. Laying down on the

Something suddenly clasps her mouth, a hand is what she suspects. It didn't feel like a hand, more jelly like and cold. Her eyes widen at the action. Her tiny throat lets out a slight squeal and she struggles to turn her head around to see what it was actually.

Mary Ann watched Henry leave making sure he was not taking the carriage with him. Once Henry made it out the door, he started his journey to his favorite pub, Crown & Anchor, which happened to be nearby the empty field across from the beach. Mary Ann went to her son’s room, to soothe him, for the poor child overheard the foul conversation that previously took place in the dining room. Meanwhile, Henry’s mind was abundant with thoughts of the heart shattering conversation he just witnessed. But then again, it was all his fault.

She smirked with her pretty eye-smile and replied, "This is why I like you, you know. The only things you say are either with silence or with raw and lovely compliments. But, for real, you're prettier, Reed."

Sticking to the wall, she keeps her eyes on the ceiling to try and find any hidden security cameras like he had shown her before. Once she decides that it’s all clear, she makes her move; feet discreetly moving her down the hall. Teeth bite into her bottom lip as the nervousness racks her petite frame while her brain is swimming in a swamp of thoughts.

She supposes she'll go put them away, if only to distract herself from the gunshot still echoing in her head. In the bathroom she finds the opposite vanity cabinets empty for her use and she fills the mirrored shelves with her things. Her arm twinges slightly but she ignores it, finishing putting her things away. Her eyes flicker to the movement in her mirror, the prince sliding into the bathroom and stalking up behind her with a sleepy look on his face with his sleep mussed hair and wrinkled button up shirt he looks devilishly handsome without trying. She's stretching up to the top shelf to put her hair brush away when the prince snatches the brush out of her hand and placing it on the shelf for her then settling his hand on her upper arm, the bandaged one.

Whether the driver heard him or not was uncertain: it seemed more likely that the stream of reproaches was carried away in the wind, for the old fellow, after waiting a moment, put up the window again, having thoroughly chilled the interior of the coach, and, settling himself once more in his corner, wrapped his blanket about his knees and muttered in his beard. His nearest neighbour, a jovial, red-faced woman in a blue cloak, sighed heavily, in sympathy, and, with a wink to anyone who might be looking and a jerk of her head towards the old man, she remarked for at least the twentieth time that it was the dirtiest night she ever remembered, and she had known some; that it was proper old weather and no mistaking it for summer this time; and, burrowing into the depths of a large basket, she brought out a great hunk of cake and plunged into it with strong white teeth. Mary Yellan sat in the opposite corner, where the trickle of rain oozed through the crack in the

First, he took in the size of the room. It was a lot smaller than he had anticipated. And a lot less impressive. The walls and floors were simple and white. The furnishings consisted of a black mat, two scenic paintings on every wall, and four spindly black chairs, unoccupied.

The room is dark for there is no light shining through the window next to the drawer like any other day. A folded paper in the bucket is settled next the drawer, that always have been cleaned, but not this time when I looked. I can smell the fresh tea where it is sitting on top of the night stand. I am sitting in a chair next to my parent’s bed with my ill mother laying on top of her bed.

“I’m Beau. Who are you? Why am I he...?’’ His voice drifted away as he took in the situation.

A single under-cabinet light in the kitchen provided all of the light in this part of the house. It was a small but orderly place - the area around the front door was lower and still slightly damp from when she had come in. It entered directly into a modest carpeted living area, with carpet and couches on the right, and a kind of lounge on the left, separated from the kitchen further back by a counter. A path in the middle lead further towards a narrow hallway, with doors on the left and right, the latter of which was to the room she had used. There was nothing on the walls besides heavy blue curtains which hung almost floor to ceiling. The chair she currently occupied was soft, clearly not new but clean and in good repair.