Fiction Period Novel English and French Accents Mysterious Gothic Tone
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Middle Aged (35-54)Accents
British (General) British (Received Pronunciation - RP, BBC) French (General)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
A mist had been tumbling over the bare masses of stone standing jagged above them. Easing down the side of the hill. It wouldn't be long before it reached the road. Genevieve made efforts to lighten the mood. Doctor told me about Sisy sending the mists to confuse us. I hope your horses know their way back. They're only low clouds. Lord Wolverton peered up to where she was looking. We're 1000 ft above the rest of the county here. Clouds need stoop very little to embrace them all. You have the soul of a poet, Genevieve mused, inspiring another of his half smiles. They'd almost reached the hall though not by its grand gates and the avenue he had taken them behind, approaching via the smaller track which led past the chapel to the rear of the hall. The frost was creeping through the verge on either side. I'll be back before you know it. He brought the horses to a standstill. It's bitter out here, but I should visit my father's grave and that of my brother, my mother's too. I have a shameful habit of putting aside what discomforts me. He touched her shoulder. Thank you. For your company today. Swinging down. He headed through the tch gate in search of the newest headstones among those of his ancestors held within the walls of the small patch of sacred ground. Genevieve wrapped her cloak tighter and peered after him. Watching for his return. Genevieve knew what it was to be alone and preferred to find her own way. She'd been sure of her plan in coming to England knowing what she must do. However, in these last hours, it had felt as if her path was shrouded and what she needed to see was just out of sight as she sat, the air seemed to grow thicker and all about her gloomier. The uncertain moon straining through the mist, she jumped as a woodcock burst from a patch of fern, fleeing, startled someone was near rushing through the grass but not from the direction of the graveyard, from the other side. Perhaps Lord Elton, the fog muffled her cry so that she wondered if she had uttered it aloud or only in her mind who's there when she saw him. It was so fleetingly that she wondered if he were a man at all so haunted with his face and hollow eyed with, he'd looked at her but a moment before disappearing into the gloom. Now she saw only drifting mist and shifting shadows. Sky led doctor who called it the trance which overtook the unwary until they knew not what was real. And what of their imagination. He'd told her one should turn one's coat or keep inside out to break their mischievous spell. Ridiculous as if she would, except that she was not alone for the horses were fidgeting in their harness, sensing something near. She heard the panting first and the rush of bounding feet before she saw the glint of eyes, not one creature but two. Or were there more? They were moving low and from her right from the direction of the hall, what did Hugo called them? Wish towns. They were creatures born of ignorant superstition she knew. But all such stories had some footprint in the truth. Conan Doyle believed so too, didn't he? She began reading the Book Me of The Curse of The Hound of the Basco. That was just a story though, written to thrill and entertain, besides which she had committed no sin worthy of attracting other worldly retribution. Had she as the first howl rent to the air, Genevieve let forth a scream of her own.