Reading Compreh...

This passage is taken from a novel set in early twentieth-
century England. Mrs. Deverell is the widow of a shop-
keeper who lived and worked in Volunteer Street; their
daughter Angel has become a best-selling novelist. Here,
Mrs. Deverell finds herself in a new home that she and
Angel share in the prosperous village of Alderhurst.

I never thought I would live in such a beautiful place,
Mrs. Deverell told Angel when they first moved in. But
nowadays she often suffered from the lowering pain of
believing herself happy when she was not. Who could
be miserable in such a place? she asked. Yet, on misty
October evenings or on Sundays, when the church bells
began, sensations she had never known before came
over her.
She sometimes felt better when she went back to see
her friends on Volunteer Street; but it was a long way to
go. Angel discouraged the visits, and her friends seemed
to have changed. Either they put out their best china and
thought twice before they said anything, or they were
defiantly informal Youll have to take us as you find
us and would persist in making remarks like Pardon
the apron, but theres no servants here to polish the grate.
In each case, they were watching her for signs of grandeur
or condescension. She fell into little traps they laid and
then they were able to report to the neighbors. It hasnt
taken her long to start putting on airs. She had to be
especially careful to recognize everyone she met, and
walked up the street with an expression of anxiety which
was misinterpreted as disdain.
The name Deverell Family Grocer stayed for a long
time over the shop, and she was pleased that it should,
although Angel frowned with annoyance when she heard
of it. Then one day the faded name was scraped and burnt
away, and on her next visit to Volunteer Street, she saw
that Cubbages Stores was painted there instead. She felt
an unaccountable panic and dismay at the sight of this and
at the strange idea of other people and furniture in those
familiar rooms. Very nice folk, she was told. Shes
so friendly. Always the same. And such lovely kiddies.
Mrs. Deverell felt slighted and wounded; going home
she was so preoccupied that she passed the wife of the
landlord of The Volunteer without seeing her. I wouldnt
expect Alderhurst people to speak to a barkeeps wife,
the woman told everyone in the saloon bar. Even though
it was our Gran who laid her husband out when he died.
All of their kindnesses were remembered and brooded
over; any past kindness Mrs. Deverell had done and
they were many only served to underline the change
which had come over her.
At a time of her life when she needed the security of
familiar things, these were put beyond her reach. It seemed
to her that she had wasted her years acquiring skills which
in the end were to be of no use to her:  her weather-eye for
a good drying day; her careful ear for judging the gentle
singing sound of meat roasting in the oven; her touch for
the freshness of meat; and how, by smelling a cake, she
could tell if it were baked. These arts, which had taken
so long to perfect, fell now into disuse. She would never
again, she grieved, gather up a great fragrant line of
washing in her arms to carry indoors. One day when they
had first come to the new house, she had passed through
the courtyard where sheets were hanging out:  she had
taken them in her hands and, finding them just at the right
stage of drying, had begun to unpeg them. They were
looped all about her shoulders when Angel caught her.
Please leave work to the people who should do it, she
had said. You will only give offense. She tried hard
not to give offense; but it was difficult. The smell of
ironing being done or the sound of eggs being whisked
set up a restlessness which she could scarcely control.
The relationship of mother and daughter seemed to
have been reversed, and Angel, now in her early twenties,
was the authoritative one; since girlhood she had been
taking on one responsibility after another, until she had
left her mother with nothing to perplex her but how to
while away the hours when the servants were busy and
her daughter was at work. Fretfully, she would wander
around the house, bored, but afraid to interrupt; she was
like an intimidated child.

This passage is taken from a novel set in early twentieth-
century England. Mrs. Deverell is the widow of a shop-
keeper who lived and worked in Volunteer Street; their
daughter Angel has become a best-selling novelist. Here,
Mrs. Deverell finds herself in a new home that she and
Angel share in the prosperous village of Alderhurst.

I never thought I would live in such a beautiful place,
Mrs. Deverell told Angel when they first moved in. But
nowadays she often suffered from the lowering pain of
believing herself happy when she was not. Who could
be miserable in such a place? she asked. Yet, on misty
October evenings or on Sundays, when the church bells
began, sensations she had never known before came
over her.
She sometimes felt better when she went back to see
her friends on Volunteer Street; but it was a long way to
go. Angel discouraged the visits, and her friends seemed
to have changed. Either they put out their best china and
thought twice before they said anything, or they were
defiantly informal Youll have to take us as you find
us and would persist in making remarks like Pardon
the apron, but theres no servants here to polish the grate.
In each case, they were watching her for signs of grandeur
or condescension. She fell into little traps they laid and
then they were able to report to the neighbors. It hasnt
taken her long to start putting on airs. She had to be
especially careful to recognize everyone she met, and
walked up the street with an expression of anxiety which
was misinterpreted as disdain.
The name Deverell Family Grocer stayed for a long
time over the shop, and she was pleased that it should,
although Angel frowned with annoyance when she heard
of it. Then one day the faded name was scraped and burnt
away, and on her next visit to Volunteer Street, she saw
that Cubbages Stores was painted there instead. She felt
an unaccountable panic and dismay at the sight of this and
at the strange idea of other people and furniture in those
familiar rooms. Very nice folk, she was told. Shes
so friendly. Always the same. And such lovely kiddies.
Mrs. Deverell felt slighted and wounded; going home
she was so preoccupied that she passed the wife of the
landlord of The Volunteer without seeing her. I wouldnt
expect Alderhurst people to speak to a barkeeps wife,
the woman told everyone in the saloon bar. Even though
it was our Gran who laid her husband out when he died.
All of their kindnesses were remembered and brooded
over; any past kindness Mrs. Deverell had done and
they were many only served to underline the change
which had come over her.
At a time of her life when she needed the security of
familiar things, these were put beyond her reach. It seemed
to her that she had wasted her years acquiring skills which
in the end were to be of no use to her:  her weather-eye for
a good drying day; her careful ear for judging the gentle
singing sound of meat roasting in the oven; her touch for
the freshness of meat; and how, by smelling a cake, she
could tell if it were baked. These arts, which had taken
so long to perfect, fell now into disuse. She would never
again, she grieved, gather up a great fragrant line of
washing in her arms to carry indoors. One day when they
had first come to the new house, she had passed through
the courtyard where sheets were hanging out:  she had
taken them in her hands and, finding them just at the right
stage of drying, had begun to unpeg them. They were
looped all about her shoulders when Angel caught her.
Please leave work to the people who should do it, she
had said. You will only give offense. She tried hard
not to give offense; but it was difficult. The smell of
ironing being done or the sound of eggs being whisked
set up a restlessness which she could scarcely control.
The relationship of mother and daughter seemed to
have been reversed, and Angel, now in her early twenties,
was the authoritative one; since girlhood she had been
taking on one responsibility after another, until she had
left her mother with nothing to perplex her but how to
while away the hours when the servants were busy and
her daughter was at work. Fretfully, she would wander
around the house, bored, but afraid to interrupt; she was
like an intimidated child.

This passage is taken from a novel set in early twentieth-
century England. Mrs. Deverell is the widow of a shop-
keeper who lived and worked in Volunteer Street; their
daughter Angel has become a best-selling novelist. Here,
Mrs. Deverell finds herself in a new home that she and
Angel share in the prosperous village of Alderhurst.

I never thought I would live in such a beautiful place,
Mrs. Deverell told Angel when they first moved in. But
nowadays she often suffered from the lowering pain of
believing herself happy when she was not. Who could
be miserable in such a place? she asked. Yet, on misty
October evenings or on Sundays, when the church bells
began, sensations she had never known before came
over her.
She sometimes felt better when she went back to see
her friends on Volunteer Street; but it was a long way to
go. Angel discouraged the visits, and her friends seemed
to have changed. Either they put out their best china and
thought twice before they said anything, or they were
defiantly informal Youll have to take us as you find
us and would persist in making remarks like Pardon
the apron, but theres no servants here to polish the grate.
In each case, they were watching her for signs of grandeur
or condescension. She fell into little traps they laid and
then they were able to report to the neighbors. It hasnt
taken her long to start putting on airs. She had to be
especially careful to recognize everyone she met, and
walked up the street with an expression of anxiety which
was misinterpreted as disdain.
The name Deverell Family Grocer stayed for a long
time over the shop, and she was pleased that it should,
although Angel frowned with annoyance when she heard
of it. Then one day the faded name was scraped and burnt
away, and on her next visit to Volunteer Street, she saw
that Cubbages Stores was painted there instead. She felt
an unaccountable panic and dismay at the sight of this and
at the strange idea of other people and furniture in those
familiar rooms. Very nice folk, she was told. Shes
so friendly. Always the same. And such lovely kiddies.
Mrs. Deverell felt slighted and wounded; going home
she was so preoccupied that she passed the wife of the
landlord of The Volunteer without seeing her. I wouldnt
expect Alderhurst people to speak to a barkeeps wife,
the woman told everyone in the saloon bar. Even though
it was our Gran who laid her husband out when he died.
All of their kindnesses were remembered and brooded
over; any past kindness Mrs. Deverell had done and
they were many only served to underline the change
which had come over her.
At a time of her life when she needed the security of
familiar things, these were put beyond her reach. It seemed
to her that she had wasted her years acquiring skills which
in the end were to be of no use to her:  her weather-eye for
a good drying day; her careful ear for judging the gentle
singing sound of meat roasting in the oven; her touch for
the freshness of meat; and how, by smelling a cake, she
could tell if it were baked. These arts, which had taken
so long to perfect, fell now into disuse. She would never
again, she grieved, gather up a great fragrant line of
washing in her arms to carry indoors. One day when they
had first come to the new house, she had passed through
the courtyard where sheets were hanging out:  she had
taken them in her hands and, finding them just at the right
stage of drying, had begun to unpeg them. They were
looped all about her shoulders when Angel caught her.
Please leave work to the people who should do it, she
had said. You will only give offense. She tried hard
not to give offense; but it was difficult. The smell of
ironing being done or the sound of eggs being whisked
set up a restlessness which she could scarcely control.
The relationship of mother and daughter seemed to
have been reversed, and Angel, now in her early twenties,
was the authoritative one; since girlhood she had been
taking on one responsibility after another, until she had
left her mother with nothing to perplex her but how to
while away the hours when the servants were busy and
her daughter was at work. Fretfully, she would wander
around the house, bored, but afraid to interrupt; she was
like an intimidated child.

This passage is taken from a novel set in early twentieth-
century England. Mrs. Deverell is the widow of a shop-
keeper who lived and worked in Volunteer Street; their
daughter Angel has become a best-selling novelist. Here,
Mrs. Deverell finds herself in a new home that she and
Angel share in the prosperous village of Alderhurst.

I never thought I would live in such a beautiful place,
Mrs. Deverell told Angel when they first moved in. But
nowadays she often suffered from the lowering pain of
believing herself happy when she was not. Who could
be miserable in such a place? she asked. Yet, on misty
October evenings or on Sundays, when the church bells
began, sensations she had never known before came
over her.
She sometimes felt better when she went back to see
her friends on Volunteer Street; but it was a long way to
go. Angel discouraged the visits, and her friends seemed
to have changed. Either they put out their best china and
thought twice before they said anything, or they were
defiantly informal Youll have to take us as you find
us and would persist in making remarks like Pardon
the apron, but theres no servants here to polish the grate.
In each case, they were watching her for signs of grandeur
or condescension. She fell into little traps they laid and
then they were able to report to the neighbors. It hasnt
taken her long to start putting on airs. She had to be
especially careful to recognize everyone she met, and
walked up the street with an expression of anxiety which
was misinterpreted as disdain.
The name Deverell Family Grocer stayed for a long
time over the shop, and she was pleased that it should,
although Angel frowned with annoyance when she heard
of it. Then one day the faded name was scraped and burnt
away, and on her next visit to Volunteer Street, she saw
that Cubbages Stores was painted there instead. She felt
an unaccountable panic and dismay at the sight of this and
at the strange idea of other people and furniture in those
familiar rooms. Very nice folk, she was told. Shes
so friendly. Always the same. And such lovely kiddies.
Mrs. Deverell felt slighted and wounded; going home
she was so preoccupied that she passed the wife of the
landlord of The Volunteer without seeing her. I wouldnt
expect Alderhurst people to speak to a barkeeps wife,
the woman told everyone in the saloon bar. Even though
it was our Gran who laid her husband out when he died.
All of their kindnesses were remembered and brooded
over; any past kindness Mrs. Deverell had done and
they were many only served to underline the change
which had come over her.
At a time of her life when she needed the security of
familiar things, these were put beyond her reach. It seemed
to her that she had wasted her years acquiring skills which
in the end were to be of no use to her:  her weather-eye for
a good drying day; her careful ear for judging the gentle
singing sound of meat roasting in the oven; her touch for
the freshness of meat; and how, by smelling a cake, she
could tell if it were baked. These arts, which had taken
so long to perfect, fell now into disuse. She would never
again, she grieved, gather up a great fragrant line of
washing in her arms to carry indoors. One day when they
had first come to the new house, she had passed through
the courtyard where sheets were hanging out:  she had
taken them in her hands and, finding them just at the right
stage of drying, had begun to unpeg them. They were
looped all about her shoulders when Angel caught her.
Please leave work to the people who should do it, she
had said. You will only give offense. She tried hard
not to give offense; but it was difficult. The smell of
ironing being done or the sound of eggs being whisked
set up a restlessness which she could scarcely control.
The relationship of mother and daughter seemed to
have been reversed, and Angel, now in her early twenties,
was the authoritative one; since girlhood she had been
taking on one responsibility after another, until she had
left her mother with nothing to perplex her but how to
while away the hours when the servants were busy and
her daughter was at work. Fretfully, she would wander
around the house, bored, but afraid to interrupt; she was
like an intimidated child.

This passage is taken from a novel set in early twentieth-
century England. Mrs. Deverell is the widow of a shop-
keeper who lived and worked in Volunteer Street; their
daughter Angel has become a best-selling novelist. Here,
Mrs. Deverell finds herself in a new home that she and
Angel share in the prosperous village of Alderhurst.

I never thought I would live in such a beautiful place,
Mrs. Deverell told Angel when they first moved in. But
nowadays she often suffered from the lowering pain of
believing herself happy when she was not. Who could
be miserable in such a place? she asked. Yet, on misty
October evenings or on Sundays, when the church bells
began, sensations she had never known before came
over her.
She sometimes felt better when she went back to see
her friends on Volunteer Street; but it was a long way to
go. Angel discouraged the visits, and her friends seemed
to have changed. Either they put out their best china and
thought twice before they said anything, or they were
defiantly informal Youll have to take us as you find
us and would persist in making remarks like Pardon
the apron, but theres no servants here to polish the grate.
In each case, they were watching her for signs of grandeur
or condescension. She fell into little traps they laid and
then they were able to report to the neighbors. It hasnt
taken her long to start putting on airs. She had to be
especially careful to recognize everyone she met, and
walked up the street with an expression of anxiety which
was misinterpreted as disdain.
The name Deverell Family Grocer stayed for a long
time over the shop, and she was pleased that it should,
although Angel frowned with annoyance when she heard
of it. Then one day the faded name was scraped and burnt
away, and on her next visit to Volunteer Street, she saw
that Cubbages Stores was painted there instead. She felt
an unaccountable panic and dismay at the sight of this and
at the strange idea of other people and furniture in those
familiar rooms. Very nice folk, she was told. Shes
so friendly. Always the same. And such lovely kiddies.
Mrs. Deverell felt slighted and wounded; going home
she was so preoccupied that she passed the wife of the
landlord of The Volunteer without seeing her. I wouldnt
expect Alderhurst people to speak to a barkeeps wife,
the woman told everyone in the saloon bar. Even though
it was our Gran who laid her husband out when he died.
All of their kindnesses were remembered and brooded
over; any past kindness Mrs. Deverell had done and
they were many only served to underline the change
which had come over her.
At a time of her life when she needed the security of
familiar things, these were put beyond her reach. It seemed
to her that she had wasted her years acquiring skills which
in the end were to be of no use to her:  her weather-eye for
a good drying day; her careful ear for judging the gentle
singing sound of meat roasting in the oven; her touch for
the freshness of meat; and how, by smelling a cake, she
could tell if it were baked. These arts, which had taken
so long to perfect, fell now into disuse. She would never
again, she grieved, gather up a great fragrant line of
washing in her arms to carry indoors. One day when they
had first come to the new house, she had passed through
the courtyard where sheets were hanging out:  she had
taken them in her hands and, finding them just at the right
stage of drying, had begun to unpeg them. They were
looped all about her shoulders when Angel caught her.
Please leave work to the people who should do it, she
had said. You will only give offense. She tried hard
not to give offense; but it was difficult. The smell of
ironing being done or the sound of eggs being whisked
set up a restlessness which she could scarcely control.
The relationship of mother and daughter seemed to
have been reversed, and Angel, now in her early twenties,
was the authoritative one; since girlhood she had been
taking on one responsibility after another, until she had
left her mother with nothing to perplex her but how to
while away the hours when the servants were busy and
her daughter was at work. Fretfully, she would wander
around the house, bored, but afraid to interrupt; she was
like an intimidated child.

In the following passage from a newspaper commentary written in 1968, an architecture critic discusses old theaters and concert halls. 

In the following passage from a newspaper commentary written in 1968, an architecture critic discusses old theaters and concert halls. 

This passage is taken from a novel set in early twentieth-
century England. Mrs. Deverell is the widow of a shop-
keeper who lived and worked in Volunteer Street; their
daughter Angel has become a best-selling novelist. Here,
Mrs. Deverell finds herself in a new home that she and
Angel share in the prosperous village of Alderhurst.

I never thought I would live in such a beautiful place,
Mrs. Deverell told Angel when they first moved in. But
nowadays she often suffered from the lowering pain of
believing herself happy when she was not. Who could
be miserable in such a place? she asked. Yet, on misty
October evenings or on Sundays, when the church bells
began, sensations she had never known before came
over her.
She sometimes felt better when she went back to see
her friends on Volunteer Street; but it was a long way to
go. Angel discouraged the visits, and her friends seemed
to have changed. Either they put out their best china and
thought twice before they said anything, or they were
defiantly informal Youll have to take us as you find
us and would persist in making remarks like Pardon
the apron, but theres no servants here to polish the grate.
In each case, they were watching her for signs of grandeur
or condescension. She fell into little traps they laid and
then they were able to report to the neighbors. It hasnt
taken her long to start putting on airs. She had to be
especially careful to recognize everyone she met, and
walked up the street with an expression of anxiety which
was misinterpreted as disdain.
The name Deverell Family Grocer stayed for a long
time over the shop, and she was pleased that it should,
although Angel frowned with annoyance when she heard
of it. Then one day the faded name was scraped and burnt
away, and on her next visit to Volunteer Street, she saw
that Cubbages Stores was painted there instead. She felt
an unaccountable panic and dismay at the sight of this and
at the strange idea of other people and furniture in those
familiar rooms. Very nice folk, she was told. Shes
so friendly. Always the same. And such lovely kiddies.
Mrs. Deverell felt slighted and wounded; going home
she was so preoccupied that she passed the wife of the
landlord of The Volunteer without seeing her. I wouldnt
expect Alderhurst people to speak to a barkeeps wife,
the woman told everyone in the saloon bar. Even though
it was our Gran who laid her husband out when he died.
All of their kindnesses were remembered and brooded
over; any past kindness Mrs. Deverell had done and
they were many only served to underline the change
which had come over her.
At a time of her life when she needed the security of
familiar things, these were put beyond her reach. It seemed
to her that she had wasted her years acquiring skills which
in the end were to be of no use to her:  her weather-eye for
a good drying day; her careful ear for judging the gentle
singing sound of meat roasting in the oven; her touch for
the freshness of meat; and how, by smelling a cake, she
could tell if it were baked. These arts, which had taken
so long to perfect, fell now into disuse. She would never
again, she grieved, gather up a great fragrant line of
washing in her arms to carry indoors. One day when they
had first come to the new house, she had passed through
the courtyard where sheets were hanging out:  she had
taken them in her hands and, finding them just at the right
stage of drying, had begun to unpeg them. They were
looped all about her shoulders when Angel caught her.
Please leave work to the people who should do it, she
had said. You will only give offense. She tried hard
not to give offense; but it was difficult. The smell of
ironing being done or the sound of eggs being whisked
set up a restlessness which she could scarcely control.
The relationship of mother and daughter seemed to
have been reversed, and Angel, now in her early twenties,
was the authoritative one; since girlhood she had been
taking on one responsibility after another, until she had
left her mother with nothing to perplex her but how to
while away the hours when the servants were busy and
her daughter was at work. Fretfully, she would wander
around the house, bored, but afraid to interrupt; she was
like an intimidated child.

This passage is taken from a novel set in early twentieth-
century England. Mrs. Deverell is the widow of a shop-
keeper who lived and worked in Volunteer Street; their
daughter Angel has become a best-selling novelist. Here,
Mrs. Deverell finds herself in a new home that she and
Angel share in the prosperous village of Alderhurst.

I never thought I would live in such a beautiful place,
Mrs. Deverell told Angel when they first moved in. But
nowadays she often suffered from the lowering pain of
believing herself happy when she was not. Who could
be miserable in such a place? she asked. Yet, on misty
October evenings or on Sundays, when the church bells
began, sensations she had never known before came
over her.
She sometimes felt better when she went back to see
her friends on Volunteer Street; but it was a long way to
go. Angel discouraged the visits, and her friends seemed
to have changed. Either they put out their best china and
thought twice before they said anything, or they were
defiantly informal Youll have to take us as you find
us and would persist in making remarks like Pardon
the apron, but theres no servants here to polish the grate.
In each case, they were watching her for signs of grandeur
or condescension. She fell into little traps they laid and
then they were able to report to the neighbors. It hasnt
taken her long to start putting on airs. She had to be
especially careful to recognize everyone she met, and
walked up the street with an expression of anxiety which
was misinterpreted as disdain.
The name Deverell Family Grocer stayed for a long
time over the shop, and she was pleased that it should,
although Angel frowned with annoyance when she heard
of it. Then one day the faded name was scraped and burnt
away, and on her next visit to Volunteer Street, she saw
that Cubbages Stores was painted there instead. She felt
an unaccountable panic and dismay at the sight of this and
at the strange idea of other people and furniture in those
familiar rooms. Very nice folk, she was told. Shes
so friendly. Always the same. And such lovely kiddies.
Mrs. Deverell felt slighted and wounded; going home
she was so preoccupied that she passed the wife of the
landlord of The Volunteer without seeing her. I wouldnt
expect Alderhurst people to speak to a barkeeps wife,
the woman told everyone in the saloon bar. Even though
it was our Gran who laid her husband out when he died.
All of their kindnesses were remembered and brooded
over; any past kindness Mrs. Deverell had done and
they were many only served to underline the change
which had come over her.
At a time of her life when she needed the security of
familiar things, these were put beyond her reach. It seemed
to her that she had wasted her years acquiring skills which
in the end were to be of no use to her:  her weather-eye for
a good drying day; her careful ear for judging the gentle
singing sound of meat roasting in the oven; her touch for
the freshness of meat; and how, by smelling a cake, she
could tell if it were baked. These arts, which had taken
so long to perfect, fell now into disuse. She would never
again, she grieved, gather up a great fragrant line of
washing in her arms to carry indoors. One day when they
had first come to the new house, she had passed through
the courtyard where sheets were hanging out:  she had
taken them in her hands and, finding them just at the right
stage of drying, had begun to unpeg them. They were
looped all about her shoulders when Angel caught her.
Please leave work to the people who should do it, she
had said. You will only give offense. She tried hard
not to give offense; but it was difficult. The smell of
ironing being done or the sound of eggs being whisked
set up a restlessness which she could scarcely control.
The relationship of mother and daughter seemed to
have been reversed, and Angel, now in her early twenties,
was the authoritative one; since girlhood she had been
taking on one responsibility after another, until she had
left her mother with nothing to perplex her but how to
while away the hours when the servants were busy and
her daughter was at work. Fretfully, she would wander
around the house, bored, but afraid to interrupt; she was
like an intimidated child.

In the following passage from a newspaper commentary written in 1968, an architecture critic discusses old theaters and concert halls.