It was an old geography-book; she wrote on its blank leaf, 'Papa lent me this book.' This book is a hundred and twenty years old; it is at this moment lying before me.

While I write this I am in the kitchen of the Parsonage, Haworth; Tabby, the servant, is washing up the breakfast-things, and Anne, my youngest sister (Maria was my eldest), is kneeling on a chair, looking at some cakes which Tabby has been baking for us.

Emily is in the parlour, brushing the carpet.

Papa and Branwell are gone to Keighley.

Aunt is upstairs in her room, and I am sitting by the table writing this in the kitchen.
Keighley is a small town four miles from here.