An Elizabeth George excerpt
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Middle Aged (35-54)Accents
British (General)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
Elena Weaver awakened when the second light went on in her bed sitting room, the first light 12 ft away on her desk managed only to rouse her moderately. The second light however positioned to shine directly in her face from an angle. Poise's lamp on the bedside table acted as efficiently as a blast of music or a jangling alarm. When it broke into her dream, an unwelcome interloper, considering the subject matter, her subconscious had been pursuing, she bolted upright in bid, she hadn't started out the previous night in this bed or even in this room. So for a moment, she blinked, perplexed, wondering when the plain red curtains had been changed with that hideous print of yellow chrysanthemums and green leaves lounging on a field of what appeared to be bracken. They were drawn across a window which was itself in the wrong place as was the desk. In fact, there shouldn't have been a desk in there at all, nor should it have been strewn with papers, notebooks, several open volumes and a large word processor. This last item as well as the telephone beside it brought everything sharply into focus. She was in her own room alone. She'd come in just before two torn off. Her clothes dropped, exhausted into bed and managed about four hours sleep. Four hours. Elena groaned. No wonder she thought she was elsewhere. Rolling out of bed, she thrust her feet into fuzzy slippers and quickly drew on the green woolen bathrobe that lay in a heap next to her jeans on the floor. The material was old, worn down to a feathery softness. Her father had presented her with a fine silk dressing gown upon her matriculation into Cambridge a year ago. Indeed, he had presented her with an entire wardrobe which she'd mostly discarded, but she'd left it at his house on one of her frequent weekend visits and while she wore it in his prisons to appease the anxiety with which she seemed to watch her every move, she never wore it at any other time. Certainly not at home in London with her mother and never here in college, the old green one was better. It felt like velvet against her bare skin. She padded across the room to her desk and pulled open the curtains. It was still dark outside and the fog which had lay upon the city like an oppressive miasma for the past five days seemed even thicker this morning, pressing against the casement windows and streaking them with a lace work of moisture on the wide si stood a cage with a small bottle of water hanging on its side an exercise wheel in its center and an athletic looking turned nest in its far right hand corner curled into this was a dollop of fur, the size of a tablespoon and the color of Sheri Elena tapped her fingers against the icy bars of the cage. She brought her face up to it. Caught the mixed smells of shredded newspaper, cedar shavings and pungent mouse droppings and blew her breath softly in the direction of the nest.