My house is perfect.
By great good fortune I have found a housekeeper no less to my mind,
a low-voiced, light-footed woman of discreet age, strong and deft enough to render me all the service I require,
and not afraid of loneliness.
She rises very early.
By my breakfast-time there remains little to be done under the roof save dressing of meals.
Very rarely do I hear even a clink of crockery; never the closing of a door or window.
Oh, blessed silence!
My house is perfect.
Just large enough to allow the grace of order in domestic circumstance;
just that superfluity of inner space, to lack which is to be less than at one's ease.
The fabric is sound; the work in wood and plaster tells of a more leisurely and a more honest age than ours.
The stairs do not creak under my step; I am attacked by no unkindly draught;
I can open or close a window without muscle-ache.
As to such trifles as the color and device of wall-paper, I confess my indifference;
be the walls only plain, and I am satisfied.
The first thing in one's home is comfort;
let beauty of detail be added if one has the means, the patience, the eye.
To me, this little book-room is beautiful, and chiefly because it is home.
Through the greater part of life I was homeless.
Many places have I lived, some which my soul disliked, and some which pleased me well;
but never till now with that sense of security which makes a home.
At any moment I might have been driven forth by evil accident, by disturbing necessity.
For all that time did I say within myself:
Some day, perchance, I shall have a home;
yet the "perchance" had more and more of emphasis as life went on,
and at the moment when fate was secretly smiling on me, I had all but abandoned hope.
I have my home at last.
This house is mine on a lease of a score of years.
So long I certainly shall not live;
but, if I did, even so long should I have the money to pay my rent and buy my food.
I am no cosmopolite.
Were I to think that I should die away from England, the thought would be dreadful to me.
And in England, this is the place of my choice; this is my home.
My house is perfect.By great good fortune I have found a housekeeper no less to my mind,a low-voiced, light-footed woman of discreet age, strong and deft enough to render me all the service I require,and not afraid of loneliness.She rises very early.By my breakfast-time there remains little to be done under the roof save dressing of meals.Very rarely do I hear even a clink of crockery; never the closing of a door or window.Oh, blessed silence!My house is perfect.Just large enough to allow the grace of order in domestic circumstance;just that superfluity of inner space, to lack which is to be less than at one's ease.The fabric is sound; the work in wood and plaster tells of a more leisurely and a more honest age than ours.The stairs do not creak under my step; I am attacked by no unkindly draught;I can open or close a window without muscle-ache.As to such trifles as the color and device of wall-paper, I confess my indifference;be the walls only plain, and I am satisfied.The first thing in one's home is comfort;let beauty of detail be added if one has the means, the patience, the eye.To me, this little book-room is beautiful, and chiefly because it is home.Through the greater part of life I was homeless.Many places have I lived, some which my soul disliked, and some which pleased me well;but never till now with that sense of security which makes a home.At any moment I might have been driven forth by evil accident, by disturbing necessity.สำหรับเวลานั้น ผมพูดว่า อยู่ในตัวเอง:บางวัน แบทแมน ฉันจะมีบ้านแต่ที่มีมากขึ้นและเน้นให้ความเป็นชีวิตก็ "แบทแมน"และในขณะนี้เมื่อชะตาแอบยิ้มกับฉัน ผมหวังแต่ทิ้งทั้งหมดมีบ้านของฉันในที่สุดบ้านนี้เป็นของผมในการเช่าที่คะแนนของปีนาน ผมแน่นอนจะไม่อยู่แต่ ผม ยาวก็ควรได้เงินจ่ายค่าเช่าของฉัน และซื้ออาหารผม cosmopolite ไม่ได้ฉันคิดว่า ฉันควรตายห่างจากอังกฤษ คิดจะ dreadful ฉันและในอังกฤษ นี้เป็นสถานที่ที่ฉันเลือก นี่คือบ้านของฉัน
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