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Author: Helene Hanff Submitted by: Maria Garcia 1582 Views View Chapter List Add a Review

Qs Legacy PDF book by Helene Hanff Read Online or Free Download in ePUB, PDF or MOBI eBooks. Published in 1985 the book become immediate popular and critical acclaim in non fiction, writing books.

The main characters of Qs Legacy novel are John, Emma. The book has been awarded with Booker Prize, Edgar Awards and many others.

One of the Best Works of Helene Hanff. published in multiple languages including English, consists of 144 pages and is available in Paperback format for offline reading.

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Qs Legacy PDF Details

Author: Helene Hanff
Book Format: Paperback
Original Title: Qs Legacy
Number Of Pages: 144 pages
First Published in: 1985
Latest Edition: August 7th 1986
Language: English
Generes: Non Fiction, Writing, Books About Books, Autobiography, Memoir, Biography, Biography, Autobiography, Biography Memoir, Language, Writing, European Literature, British Literature, Literature, Literature, American,
Formats: audible mp3, ePUB(Android), kindle, and audiobook.

The book can be easily translated to readable Russian, English, Hindi, Spanish, Chinese, Bengali, Malaysian, French, Portuguese, Indonesian, German, Arabic, Japanese and many others.

Please note that the characters, names or techniques listed in Qs Legacy is a work of fiction and is meant for entertainment purposes only, except for biography and other cases. we do not intend to hurt the sentiments of any community, individual, sect or religion

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#Chapters
1Chapter 1
2Chapter 2
3Chapter 3
4Chapter 4
5Chapter 5
6Chapter 6
7Chapter 7
8Chapter 8
9Chapter 9
10Chapter 10

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Great book, nicely written and thank you BooksVooks for uploading

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Popular Books

UP, UP AND AWAY

Theoretically, it was one of the happiest days of my life. The date was Thursday, June 17, 1971; the BOAC lifted from Kennedy airport promptly at 10
A.M.
; the sky was blue and sunny, and after a lifetime of waiting I was finally on my way to London.

But I was also fresh out of the hospital after unexpected surgery, I was terrified of going abroad by myself (I am terrified of going to Queens or Brooklyn by myself; I'm afraid of getting lost) and I had no idea what I would do if something went wrong and nobody met the plane. I especially didn't know how I would manage the mammoth borrowed suitcase I couldn't budge, let alone carry.

Year after year I'd planned a pilgrimage to London, only to have it canceled at the last minute by some crisis, usually financial. This time it was different. From the beginning, heaven seemed to favor the trip.

I'd written a book called
84, Charing Cross Road
, and a few months after it came out in New York, a London publisher named André Deutsch bought it for publication in England. He wrote me that the London edition would be brought out in June and he wanted me there to help publicize the book. Since he owed me a small “advance,” I wrote and told him to keep the money in his office for me. I figured it was enough to keep me in London for three weeks if I was frugal.

In March, the
Reader's Digest
bought an article I wrote about my fan mail and the
Digest
check bought the BOAC
ticket, some expensive clothes and—as things turned out—an expensive surgeon.

With the surgery, contributions came in from all over. The Democratic Club I belong to didn't send flowers to the hospital, they sent a Harrods gift certificate. A friend just back from London stuck a wad of British pounds under my door labeled “For theatre tickets.” And one of my brothers stopped by and gave me a hundred dollars “to go to Paris with.” I had no intention of going to Paris (I never wanted to see any city but London) but the hundred meant an extra week in London plus a few frills like cabs and hairdressers. So financially I was all set.

The night before I left, two friends gave me a farewell party. I'd spent the day packing, to the indignant fury of all my vital organs, and I left the party early and was in bed and asleep by midnight. At 3
A.M
. I came staring awake, with my insides slamming around and a voice in my head demanding:

Street

“What are you
doing
, going three thousand miles from home by yourself, you're not even HEALTHY!”

I got out of bed, had hysterics, a martini and two cigarettes, got back in bed, and whiled away the rest of the night composing cables saying I wasn't coming.

Paul, the doorman, drove me to the airport. I got on the passport line holding my coat, scarf, magazines and an extra sweater in one hand, while the other held up the pants of my new navy pantsuit which had refused to stay up by themselves since the operation.

Standing in line proved to be no more uncomfortable than hanging by my thumbs, and when I was finally allowed to board the plane I slid into my seat by the window blissful
in the knowledge that for five hours I wouldn't have to move a muscle. Somebody brought me sandwiches and coffee I hadn't had to make; somebody brought me a martini; and somebody else was going to clean it all up afterwards. I began to relax.

When I was completely relaxed, the voice in my head inquired what I planned to do if something went wrong and nobody met the plane. To forestall panic, I got the letters out of my shoulder bag and read them over. Those letters were my lifeline.

The first was from Carmen, André Deutsch's publicity girl.

Dear Helene,

I've confirmed your reservation for June 17th at the Kenilworth Hotel. It's just up the way from Deutsch's so you won't feel too alone. The publication date of your book is June 10th, sorry you'll miss it but glad you're on the mend.

We're all looking forward to seeing you on the 18th.

Thanks to a mix-up I had two hotel rooms, one at the Kenilworth and one at the Cumberland. On the advice of well-traveled friends I'd hung onto both rooms in case one wasn't there for me when I arrived. But I was going to the Kenilworth first; it was cheaper.

The second letter was a hasty, last-minute scrawl from Nora Doel.
84, Charing Cross Road
is the story of my twenty-year correspondence with Marks & Co., a London
bookshop, and particularly with its chief buyer, Frank Doel, whose sudden death had given rise to the book. Nora is his widow; Sheila is his daughter.

Helene—

Sheila and I will be at Heathrow Airport on Thursday night at ten. We're both very excited.

Have a good trip.

Nora

The third letter came from an Englishman who had written me a fan letter after he read
84, Charing Cross Road
and had asked when I was finally coming to London. I wrote and told him, and he wrote back:

I am a retired publisher now working at London Airport. Please, if I can be of help, USE ME! I can meet you off your plane and see you through Customs and Immigration. Any friends meeting you would have to meet you AFTER you leave Customs. I would meet you off the plane before your dainty feet touched British soil.

I hadn't the slightest idea how he expected to manage it but I was counting heavily on his getting my dainty feet off the plane. What did I know about Customs and Immigration?

There was a fan letter from the wife of an American professor working at Oxford for a year, inviting me to visit them at Oxford. There was a fan letter from an American
living in London, who wanted to take me on a walking tour. And there was a letter from Jean Ely, a retired actress in New York whom I'd met as a result of the book:

Dear Helene:

I've written to a friend in London about you. He's an Old Etonian who knows London better than anyone I ever met. I've never imposed on him in this way before but I wrote him you were one visitor he must take on a tour of London. His name is Pat Buckley. He'll get in touch with you at the Kenilworth.

I won't tell you to have a wonderful time, you couldn't possibly have anything else.

Jean

PS. Keep a diary. So much will be happening to you, you won't remember it all without a diary.

I read all the letters over several times. I checked my passport and vaccination certificate several times; I studied an English Coins card somebody had given me, and I read a BOAC booklet I hadn't had time to read before, on What to Take With You on the Trip. It listed twenty-three items, fourteen of which I didn't have:

3 washable dresses

2 vests

2 pair gloves

small hat(s)

twin set

wool stole

evening dress

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evening bag

evening shoes

girdle.

I'd brought three pantsuits, two skirts, several sweaters and blouses, a white blazer and one dress. The dress was silk, chic and expensive, it had a matching coat and was intended to cover large evenings.

I got out my Visitors' Map of London and pored over it. I can read maps only in terms of Up, Down, Left and Right, but I'd marked key places—St. Paul's, Westminster Abbey, the Tower of London—and I'd charted walking tours all over the map. The key places would have to wait till the end of my stay, when I hoped to be able to stand still for long periods, but meanwhile I could walk the city end to end. (I'd discovered I was all right as long as I kept moving.)

I was perfectly calm and happy until a voice announced over the intercom that it was 9:50
P.M.
British time, we would be landing at Heathrow Airport in five minutes and it was raining in London.

“Don't panic,” I told myself. “Just decide
now
what you'll do if Nora and Sheila aren't there and that nut at the airport forgot this is the day you're coming.”

I decided I would look up Nora and Sheila Doel in the phone book and call them. If they didn't answer I would look up Carmen of Deutsch's. If she didn't answer I would go up to an airport official and say:

“Excuse me, sir. I have just arrived from New York, I have a suitcase I can't budge, I don't know where the Kenilworth Hotel is and I am Not Well.”

The plane began its descent and the passengers moved about, collecting hand luggage. I had no hand luggage. I sat frozen and told myself that if nobody met me I would sit in the airport till the next plane left for New York and fly home. At which moment the voice spoke again into the intercom:

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“Will Miss Hanff please identity herself to a member of the staff?”

I leaped to my feet and held up my free hand (one hand being permanently attached to the pants) only to find there wasn't a member of the staff in sight. The other passengers, lining up to leave the plane, stared at me curiously as, red-faced but awash with relief, I gathered up everything in my free hand and got on the end of the line. Now that I knew I was being met, I was giddy and half drunk with excitement. I had never really expected to make it to London—and I'd made it.

I reached the stewardess who was saying goodbye to disembarking passengers, and told her I was Miss Hanff. She pointed to the bottom of the ramp and said:

“The gentleman is waiting for you.”

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And there he was, a big, towering Colonel Blimp with a beaming smile on his face and both arms outstretched, waiting to get my dainty feet onto British soil. As I went down the ramp to meet him, I thought:

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“Jean was right. Keep a diary.”