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Miss Buncle Married

Cover of Miss Buncle Married

Miss Buncle Married

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A Marriage and a Sudden Move to a New Town Won't Slow This Mischievous Writer Down!

Barbara Buncle: bestselling novelist, new wife...new neighbor?

In this charming follow-up to Miss Buncle's Book, the intrepid writer moves to a new town filled with fascinating folks...who don't even know they might become the subjects of her next bestselling book.

Miss Buncle may have settled down, but she has already discovered that married life can't do a thing to prevent her from getting into humorous mix-ups and hilarious hijinks.

A beloved author who has sold more than seven million books, D. E. Stevenson is at her best with the stories of Miss Buncle.

"Completely charming."

"And funny, in a way that's intelligent without being difficult and cozy without turning sticky-sweet." —Reader Review for the Miss Buncle books

A Marriage and a Sudden Move to a New Town Won't Slow This Mischievous Writer Down!

Barbara Buncle: bestselling novelist, new wife...new neighbor?

In this charming follow-up to Miss Buncle's Book, the intrepid writer moves to a new town filled with fascinating folks...who don't even know they might become the subjects of her next bestselling book.

Miss Buncle may have settled down, but she has already discovered that married life can't do a thing to prevent her from getting into humorous mix-ups and hilarious hijinks.

A beloved author who has sold more than seven million books, D. E. Stevenson is at her best with the stories of Miss Buncle.

"Completely charming."

"And funny, in a way that's intelligent without being difficult and cozy without turning sticky-sweet." —Reader Review for the Miss Buncle books

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    Chapter One
    Mr. and Mrs. Abbott

    "We had better move," said Mr. Abbott casually. Mrs. Abbott's hand was arrested in midair as it went toward the handle of the coffee pot. Her gray eyes widened, her mouth opened (displaying a set of exceptionally fine teeth) and remained open, but no sound came. The pleasant dining-room was very quiet, a fire burned briskly in the grate, the pale wintry sunshine flowed in at the window onto the red and blue Turkey carpet, the carved oak furniture and the motionless forms of Mr. and Mrs. Abbott sitting at the breakfast table. On the table the silver glittered and the china shone-as china does when it is well washed and polished by careful hands. It was a Sunday morning, as could easily be deduced from the lateness of the hour and the unnatural quiet outside as well as inside the Abbotts' small, but comfortable, house.

    "I said we had better move," Mr. Abbott repeated.

    "Yes-I thought you said that," declared Mrs. Abbott incredulously.

    Mr. Abbott lowered his paper and looked at his wife over the top of his spectacles. It was a Sunday paper, of course, and Mr. Abbott had been glancing over the publishers' announcements. He was a publisher himself so the advertisements interested him very much, but did not deceive him. The news that Messrs. Faction 8c Whiting were publishing the Greatest Novel of the Century, crammed with Adventure, scintillating with Brilliance, and bubbling with Humor merely roused in Mr. Abbott's bosom a faint kind of wonder as to what they paid their advertising agent. He put down the paper without regret, and looked at his wife, and, as he looked at her, he smiled because she was nice to look at, and because he loved her, and because she amused and interested him enormously. They had been married for nine months now, and sometimes he thought he knew her through and through, and sometimes he thought he didn't know the first thing about her-theirs was a most satisfactory marriage.

    "Yes, I said 'move,'" he repeated (in what Barbara Abbott secretly called "Arthur's smiling voice"). "Why not move, Barbara? It would solve all our difficulties at one blow. We could have a nice house, further out of town, with a nice garden-trees and things," added Mr. Abbott, waving his hand vaguely, as if to conjure up the nice house before Barbara's eyes, and the queer thing was he succeeded. Barbara immediately beheld a nice house with a nice garden, further out of town. The whole thing rose before her eyes in a sort of vision-lawns and trees and flower beds with roses in them, and a nice house in the middle-all bathed in sunshine.

    "Yes," she said breathlessly, "yes, why not? If you wouldn't mind leaving Sunnydene-there's no reason, I mean-"

    "Exactly," nodded her husband, "you see. There's no reason at all, and it would solve all our difficulties."

    They looked at each other and grinned a little self-consciously-their difficulties were so absurd. Had any two, apparently sane, people ever landed themselves in such a foolish, ridiculous mess?

    The human mind is a marvelous organism. While Mr. Abbott was still grinning a trifle self-consciously at his wife, he returned through time and saw the events of the last twenty-four hours in a flash. He helped himself to more marmalade, and thought, queer, if I hadn't drunk any of Mrs. Cluloe's port (and why did I when I knew it would be rubbish-you can't trust port in a woman's house-I knew that and yet, like a fool, I drank it). If I hadn't drunk any of Mrs. Cluloe's port, I wouldn't have had a ghastly headache all yesterday, and if I hadn't had a ghastly...

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Miss Buncle Married
Miss Buncle Married
D.E. Stevenson
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